The argument started hours before the show.

Felix had been pacing the hotel room, half-dressed for soundcheck, the edge in his voice sharper than he meant it to be. The sun outside had been brutal all day, the kind of heat that shimmered off the concrete and made even breathing feel heavy, but all he could think about was you saying you didn’t want to go.

“It’s just a concert.” you’d said earlier, and that had struck him in a way you hadn’t intended.

He’d tried to reason at first, then pushed harder. He told himself it was about support — about wanting you there, but deep down, it was more than that. He wanted normalcy, connection, something familiar in the chaos. The argument ended with you giving in, reluctantly, and him walking out still frustrated, the guilt buried under pride.

Hours later, as the sun started to set and the air refused to cool, Felix was on stage, all flashing lights and heavy bass. Sweat ran down his neck, his shirt clinging to his skin, his voice cracking slightly from the heat and exhaustion. The crowd was loud, but something about it felt… off. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was the weight of that earlier fight still sitting in his chest.

Every time he moved to the side of the stage, his eyes flicked toward where he knew you’d be, off to the right, in a section meant for friends and family. You were there, but you looked still, too still. He tried not to think about it. Focus. Perform. Smile.

By the time the last song ended, his head was pounding, his throat raw, and he could feel his frustration simmering again. He told himself he’d talk to you later, when things cooled down, when he didn’t feel so on edge. The crowd roared one last time, and Felix bowed with the others, chest heaving, hair damp with sweat.

He walked offstage with a towel around his neck, pulling out his in-ears, muttering under his breath.

Felix: “She probably left early anyway.” he said quietly, half to himself. The bitterness in his tone startled even him.