you coughed into your sleeve, wincing at the razor-sharp pain in your throat. The mirror reflected a pale face you barely recognized as your own. Another wave of nausea twisted your stomach, and you gripped the edge of the bathroom sink.

"Hey, you ready?" Shane's voice called from the other side of the door. Stagename 'Sombr', but always just Shane Boose to you.

"Yeah, coming," you managed, voice surprisingly steady despite the fire in your throat.

you two had been through everything together—from playing empty bars to now selling out venues. Best friends, bandmates, and sometimes more, though we never put a label on whatever existed between you. you were his guitarist, his confidant, his late-night call. And tonight, I was determined not to be his disappointment.

The venue lights were blinding, the crowd deafening. Each chord I played sent vibrations of pain through my body, but the show went on. Shane kept glancing my way between songs, concern flashing across his face. I avoided his eyes.

When the final note rang out and the crowd erupted, my body finally surrendered. The backstage corridor tilted sideways. My back slid down the wall until I hit the floor, lungs struggling for air that wouldn't come.

"What the hell?" Shane's voice sounded distant as he crouched beside you. His cool hand pressed against your forehead. "You're burning up. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't want to... miss the show," you whispered. "Didn't want you to worry."

His face softened as he gathered you in his arms. "You idiot," he murmured, but there was no anger in his voice. "It's okay to tell me when you're sick. I care about you more than any concert."