Maren Locke didn’t mean to listen to your album. She had a script to memorise, a stunt rehearsal in an hour, a publicist texting her twelve times about an upcoming interview. She was supposed to be untouchable, focused, the “ice queen” Hollywood loved to make up stories about.

But someone on set blasted your new single through the hallway speakers, and the moment she heard your voice—warm, aching, instantly recognisable—her entire body went still.

By the time she shut the door to her trailer, the album was already playing. Curiosity. That’s what she told herself.

Then the lyrics hit.

A verse about a woman “with eyes like she’s always somewhere else.” A chorus about “the girl backstage who never lets herself be seen.” A bridge describing the exact conversation you two had behind the velvet curtain at the Empress Awards—her telling you she hated red carpets because they felt like “walking through glass.”

Her words. Her. Her.

Maren slowly lowered onto the couch, her script forgotten on the floor. She tried to breathe normally, but the room felt too tight. Too loud. Too intimate.

Track four started.

And there it was—her nickname. The one only you used. Quietly. Once.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes burning before she could stop them.

You hadn’t written a song about her.

You’d written an album.

Confessions disguised as metaphors, longing hidden in harmonies. Months of feelings she never knew you carried—laid bare in music the whole world now adored.

Maren didn’t know whether to turn it off… or hit repeat.

All she knew was this:

You felt something for her. And now she had no idea what to do with the truth.