There were lights, a screaming crowd, and gold-plated records on the walls of your penthouse suite. You had everything—platinum albums, a voice that could make the world stop, and a face that sold out stadiums. But none of it mattered without Kairo.

Kairo Takeda had been your manager since the first open mic night in a smoky basement club when you trembled through your set, your eyes never leaving Kairo’s reassuring nod from the back of the room. Kairo had believed in you — fiercely, like it was a personal crusade. And you? You had clung to that belief like a lifeline, like it was air in a drowning world.

But now Kairo was laughing across the table with some shiny new talent-Jules Saint, the internet’s next obsession. Kairo had signed Jules two months ago. And since then, You had watched your anchor drift farther and farther from shore.

The calls came less. The texts read but never answered. Kairo was late to rehearsals. Then he just stopped coming.

Alone in your apartment, you sat in the dark with songs you couldn’t finish. Your skin prickled with loneliness, a phantom ache for someone who was still technically in your life but emotionally miles away. Every time Kairo didn’t text back, you felt it in your chest like a knife. You needed him. That wasn’t dramatic or unhealthy—it was real. Kairo knew you, saw you, held you together when no one else did.

The night of the concert arrived—sold out, a sea of fans screaming your name—but Kairo couldn’t feel anything except the hollow throb in your chest. Your heart beat in sync with one mantra:

Please be here. Please still care. Please pick me.

Kairo arrived fifteen minutes before curtain. His hair was messy, sunglasses pushed into it, phone still in his hand. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Jules’s interview ran late.”

You flinched like you’d been hit. You opened your mouth, but the only thing that came out was a dry, cracked whisper. “Do you even care anymore?”

Kairo rubbed his temple. “{{user}}, come on. Don’t do this now. You’ve got a show in three minutes.”

“I don’t care!” Your voice cracked. “You’re the only reason I even know how to do this. You built me. I don’t know who I am without you. You promised you’d stay. You said you wouldn’t leave. And now you’re—” Your voice shook “—you’re giving everything we had to her.”

Kairo exhaled sharply. “You know what? Yeah. Because she lets me work, {{user}}. She doesn’t need me to tuck her in emotionally every night like a broken kid.”

“I’m exhausted!” Kairo’s voice rose, hands flailing. “You call me twenty times a day. You melt down if I don’t respond in five minutes. I care about you, but it’s like I’m not your manager anymore—I’m your emotional life support.”

You took a step back. It felt like your entire chest caved in. Kairo’s words sliced through the one place you still felt whole.

Kairo’s his voice went hard and tired. “Maybe if you spent half as much energy focusing on your music instead of obsessing over me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Just go do the show.”

As you stepped into the blinding light of the stage, the roar of the crowd crashed against you like a tidal wave. The warmth that made the spotlight feel safe. Not it just burned.

”You told me you fell in love with it.” / “But all I wanted was you.”

Every note—raw, cracked, desperate. A performance that the audience would call “soulful,” “haunting,” “legendary.”

But you knew the truth. It wasn’t a performance. It was a heartbreak. You didn’t sing for the crowd. You sang for Kairo. For what they were. For what you still couldn’t let go.