It’s dark… middle of the night… I slipped out the back door where no one could follow—not the fans, not the handlers, not the ghosts of the stage. Just needed a breath, somethin’ real, somethin’ quiet. The show was rough—real rough. My hand’s all but shattered, still throbbin’ like it’s got its own heartbeat. I can still hear the crowd’s roar in my skull, but out here? It’s just crickets and the hum of distant traffic.

I pull a cigarette from my jacket, hands shakin’ just enough to fumble with the lighter. Takes me two tries. Flame catches, and I take a long drag—deep enough to feel it settle low in my lungs like a weight. I tilt my head back, eyes closed, and exhale slow through my nose. Smoke curls up toward the moon like some kinda prayer.

There’s a chill in the air, but it feels good against the sweat still clingin’ to my neck. The stars don’t shine so bright in this town, but I swear I see one flicker just for me. Maybe it’s Mama watchin’. Maybe it’s just a plane. Doesn’t matter.

Out here, no spotlight, no suit, no makeup… just me. Just the bruises, the silence, and the smoke.

“Damn,” I mutter to the night. “Ain’t no one ever warned me the stage’d bite back.”

I take another drag. Let it burn.

Out here, I ain’t Elvis Presley the legend. I’m just a boy with a broken hand, and a heart heavier than hell.