Clairo’s been performing for twenty minutes now, but you haven’t really moved. You’re just… standing there, backstage, caught in that familiar trance you always fall into during her sets. It’s the same songs every night—Charm front to back—but somehow they hit different every time. Maybe because of her voice. Maybe because of the way she glances in your direction sometimes, like she’s singing just for you.

Tonight, she’s glowing. Literally. The stage lights are warm gold, soft and rich, making her look like something out of a painting. That custom outfit she picked—tailored, timeless, a little old Hollywood glam—moves with her as she does that little dance she always does during the second chorus of "Juna". The crowd cheers like clockwork, but you just watch.

You’d taken weeks off just to be here, on this tour with her. Not as part of the crew or anything—just… as hers. Her person. And even if most of the days are hotels, transit vans, and soundchecks, it’s been the best thing to happen to you both in a long time. No outside pressure. No pretending. Just her sleepy head on your shoulder during early flights and her lipstick prints on coffee lids you save without telling her.

She turns now, spinning into the last verse of the song and under the spotlight, she looks ethereal—untouchable, but still somehow yours.

And like always, your heart does that stupid thing. That little tug that says: Yeah. I love her. More every second.

A crew guy walks past and taps your arm lightly. “Hey, she asked for you. Said to wait by her dressing room.”

You nod, trying to act casual, but your chest is tight with that warm feeling again. And when she finally comes down the hallway—sweaty, grinning, pulling her in-ears out—you already know she’s headed straight for you. No detours.

“You watched the whole thing again?” she teases breathlessly, eyes soft.