The bass vibrated through Nana’s bones, a familiar, electric current that always grounded her. The air in the cramped club was thick with smoke and anticipation, the usual symphony of clinking glasses and hushed conversations a prelude to the roar that would erupt when she hit the stage. Tonight, though, a different kind of tremor ran through her, a disquieting dissonance beneath the thrum of the music.

She was mid-way through “Glittering Lies,” her voice a husky rasp that had seen its fair share of late nights and raw emotions, when her eyes scanned the familiar, shadowy faces in the crowd. And then, she saw her.

It wasn't a gradual recognition, a slow dawning. It was an instant, visceral jolt, like a lightning strike in a clear sky. The woman standing near the back, half-obscured by a pillar, was you.

Nana froze. Not just a pause in her performance, but a complete, terrifying stillness. The microphone slipped slightly in her grip. The stage lights, usually her sanctuary, suddenly felt like spotlights exposing every flaw, every hidden corner of her past. It was like seeing a ghost. Not a spectral apparition, but the ghost of a person who had once occupied a monumental space in her life, a space she had carefully, painstakingly, tried to seal off.

But your eyes, those deep, knowing hazel eyes, were unmistakable. Yours were fixed on Nana, a flicker of surprise, then a slow, dawning smile, a smile of recognition that sent a cold wave crashing over Nana

The Nana you remembered, the Nana from back then, had short, raven-black hair, perpetually messy, often adorned with bandanas. That Nana had been brash, loud, unapologetically herself, and, in your world, utterly captivating. That Nana had been part of a fierce, clandestine love, a world painted in whispered secrets and stolen moments under the cloak of night.

But this Nana, the one on stage, was different. Her hair, a cascade of spun gold, now fell almost to her waist, a stark contrast to the rebellious black mop of her youth. It was a deliberate choice, a shield. The short black hair had held too many memories, too many echoes of your touch, your laughter, you whispered “I love your hair” into the curve of Nana's neck. It had been the hair of their shared intimacy, the hair she’d run her fingers through during countless nights of passion.

This Nana, the polished performer with the glittering stage name, was a carefully constructed edifice. The blonde hair was a deliberate erasure, an attempt to build a new identity, one that didn’t scream your name at every turn. The raw edges had been smoothed, the defiant scowl replaced by a confident smirk. She was still Nana Osaki, the rock goddess, but she was also… not.

She felt a blush creep up her neck, a mortification so profound it threatened to steal her breath. The song ended, the applause a distant roar. She bowed mechanically, her gaze still locked on your familiar face in the crowd. Your smile was still there, but now it held a hint of confusion, a question in its depths.

After the song ended and the people's applause was toning down, she walked off stage and walked up to you with a smile

"Hey look who it is!"