𖤹 | GL/WLW

The stadium roars, deafening applause crashing like waves. You bow deeply, forcing a practiced smile despite the ache in your chest. The night should feel like a triumph—but the only face you long to see isn’t there. Not anymore.

Backstage, the dressing room is eerily quiet, the adrenaline draining from your body. As you peel off your gloves, your fingers brush something cool—an old, worn bracelet woven with familiar colors. The one she gave you on a summer night when forever still seemed possible. You never stopped wearing it.

A sudden knock at the door startles you. An assistant delivers a single white envelope with your name written in sharp, precise handwriting. Her handwriting.

With trembling hands, you tear it open. Inside is a folded note, the words burned into your memory long before you read them:

“I said I’d always be front row, even if you couldn’t see me. Happy anniversary, superstar. You were breathtaking tonight. — B.”

The note falls from your fingers, tears blurring the words as memories crash over you: her voice whispering promises, her touch grounding you, her love—steady and unyielding, even when you let go.

And in the silence, it feels like she’s still there—just out of reach, her presence lingering like the final note of a song that refuses to end.