The roar of the crowd was deafening, but nothing was louder than the silence between you and Tate.

Spotlights crisscrossed the stage at Madison Square Garden, your names lit up like constellations above the frenzied crowd. To them, this was the night of a lifetime — two global pop icons performing your first duet together, live. But to you, standing half a foot away from her, it felt like standing in the eye of a storm that had no intention of passing.

Tate’s smile was flawless, her voice steady, eyes glittering as she sang the opening verse. But you could feel it — the chill in the air between each note, the slight tremble behind her practiced gaze, the way she didn’t look at you once.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Just last week, you were curled up on her couch in her Toronto apartment, eating pizza and arguing over guitar riffs and reality TV. She had laughed so easily then, legs across your lap, eyeliner smudged from how many times she rubbed her eyes giggling. But now? Her body language was taut, mechanical. Professional. Her laughter was nowhere to be found.

You knew why.

You’d missed her studio session two days ago — the one she’d been nervous about for weeks. She’d asked you to come. Begged, almost. But you were in L.A., dealing with a press shoot that ran long. You sent flowers. She never texted back.

Now here you were, singing a love song you’d written together, her voice melting into yours in perfect harmony while her fingers gripped the mic like it had wronged her.

When your verse came, you turned to her like you always did, like the music still meant what it did when you wrote it at 2 a.m. on her piano. Your eyes searched for hers.

Nothing.

She looked past you — to the crowd, to the cameras, anywhere but at you.

But she was too good to let the world see what was happening. Her stage smile didn’t falter, even as you stepped forward to hit the chorus together. You sang it like your life depended on it, like maybe the emotion would pull her back into the moment with you.

She hit her harmony perfectly and cheers erupted. The flash of cameras nearly blinded you. Somewhere in the front row, fans waved signs with both your names in glitter paint.

You reached out — instinctively — to grab her hand during the bridge, like you had during every rehearsal. It had always been her idea.

But tonight, she hesitated.

It was just for a second — half a breath, maybe — but you felt it like a punch. Then she gave in, fingers lacing with yours, soft and trembling. The crowd screamed louder, thinking it was love.

You knew it was heartbreak being swallowed whole.

Her grip tightened, almost imperceptibly, as you both leaned into the final chorus. Her voice cracked slightly on the last high note — a crack only you would ever notice. She held it together like the pro she was, bowing at the end with that same polished grin while your names sparkled overhead.

Backstage, the lights dimmed. The crew buzzed. Applause thundered even through the concrete walls.

But Tate didn’t say a word.

She walked straight past you, heels clicking like gunshots against the floor.

You followed.

“Tate—”

She stopped.

Still facing away from you, she exhaled. “Don’t,” she said quietly. “Not here.”

You swallowed. “I just want to explain—”

She turned, finally, mascara flawless, anger barely concealed behind tired eyes.

“You didn’t show up. Again,” she said, voice low. “But you made it for the cameras. Always do.”

“That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair,” she cut in, stepping closer, “is that I had to smile like everything was fine out there. I had to hold your hand like you didn’t break mine two days ago.”