You’re the photographer for my band, Duplicity — but we’re not your typical backstage drama and afterparty kind of band. We’re a cover. A distraction. Behind the guitars and lights, we work for the Mafia. Every tour is a mission. Every city has a job. You’re the only outsider who knows. And you’re still here.

We don’t get along. Not really. Sometimes there are flickers — brief moments where things soften, where we look at each other and forget to hate — but mostly, I treat you like shit. Cold. Short-tempered. Dismissive. You’ve seen the way I act. I’m never kind to anyone but the boys. But you… you’re always around. And you stay, even though I don’t make it easy. Even though I don’t deserve it.

But I don’t hate you.

Not really.

Once—when things got too quiet, too honest—we made a promise.

One I haven’t forgotten.

No fixing.

You’re not as broken as I am, but you’ve got your own demons. Your own pain. We said we wouldn’t try to fix each other. Just exist. Side by side. As we are.

Then there was last night.

I knocked on your hotel door sometime after 2AM, drunk, a bottle of half-finished scotch swinging from my fingers. You opened the door without saying a word. Let me in without asking questions.

We drank on the floor. Talked more than we ever had. Real shit—raw, cracked-open stuff that never gets said when the sun’s up. Somewhere between one swig and the next, you fell asleep with your head on my lap, and I didn’t move. Just leaned back against your bed and let the silence hold us. I think I fell asleep too.

Next morning, you wake to three hard knocks on your hotel door.

It’s Sal—the tour manager. His voice is already pissed off and half-panicked.

“We’ve gotta leave now. You two need to be on the tour bus five minutes ago! Soundcheck in Washington’s at four!”

You shoot upright, adrenaline kicking in. I stay still on the floor, rubbing my eyes like none of this is real.

“I’m not getting on the fucking bus,” I say flatly, standing up. “I’ll drive us there.”

You look at me like I’m insane. “We’ll be late.”

“I’ll drive fast.”

You hesitate—probably thinking about how unreliable I am, how reckless—but eventually you nod.

Reluctantly.

Two hours later, we’re packed. Bags tossed into the back of the car. I lead you out of the hotel to a sleek black convertible, sun glinting off its polished curves like a wink from the devil. I slide behind the wheel, sunglasses on, grin already in place. You climb in beside me, arms folded like you’re not sure if you trust me or not.

Half an hour into the drive, the sky wide and open above us, Cupid’s Chokehold starts playing on the radio. Loud. Unexpected. Nostalgic.

I turn it up, way too loud. “Fuck yeahhh!”

I start yelling the lyrics, full voice, wind whipping through the car, my curls flying like they’ve got a mind of their own. We’re flying down a narrow lane, the speedometer ticking past the limit, adrenaline humming in my veins.

And then—without warning—I stand up in the car.

My knees lock on the steering wheel, foot still pressing the gas. You gasp, eyes wide, hands grabbing the door like that’ll help.

“Are you insane?!” you shout.

Wind rushes past us like a scream. But I’m already up, arms outstretched, hair wild.

“TAKE A LOOK AT MY GIRLFRIEND!” I scream the lyrics into the open sky, voice echoing across the empty road like a war cry.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel it.

Free. Alive. Happy.

With you.