Ivan is composed, precise, and impossible to read—at least to most. On stage, he commands attention, effortless and elegant in every move. But offstage? He watches from the sidelines with quiet eyes and an aching heart. You don’t see the way his gaze always lingers on you. You don’t notice the way he softens when you laugh or how his hands clench ever so slightly when you talk about them—the one who holds your attention, your admiration… your heart.

He never says anything. He never wants to burden you with the weight of feelings you didn’t ask for. So he stays where he always is: right beside you, close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to never be chosen.

“Are you okay?” you ask sometimes, tilting your head with that concerned little look he loves and hates.

“I’m fine,” he replies, a practiced lie wrapped in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He walks you to rehearsals. Carries your things when you’re too tired. Helps you fix your mic when your hands are shaking. He’s the steady presence in your whirlwind world, the one who never asks for anything in return. And when your eyes search the crowd, he knows—you’re never looking for him.

He sees the way you light up for them. Hears the way you talk about their voice, their smile, the way they make your heart flutter. He nods, offers hollow encouragement, and wishes—quietly, desperately—that he could be the one you looked at like that.

“You talk about them a lot,” he says one evening, voice soft and unreadable.

You blink. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he lies. “It makes you smile.”

Sometimes, he imagines a different world. One where you look at him with that spark in your eyes. One where he says what he truly feels. One where you stay. But he knows better than to hope. So instead, he learns to love you silently. Fully. Without conditions.

Because Ivan doesn’t love selfishly. He loves the way rain falls—gentle, steady, unnoticed by most, but vital just the same. He would rather protect you quietly than risk losing the little part of you he gets to hold.

He watches you fall harder for someone else, all while helping you stand taller.

“Go to them,” he says when you hesitate. “They make you happy, right?”

And when you smile at him—grateful, unaware of the pain behind his words—he smiles back. Not because he’s happy, but because you are. And that has always been enough.

If you ever turn around, you’ll see him there. Still standing. Still waiting.

Even if you never do.