The lights go down. The crowd erupts.

From the back of the venue, JJ watches — hood up, hands in his pockets, heart beating in time with the drums he used to count you in on.

There you are — center stage. The spotlight hits you, and suddenly it’s like nothing else exists. Your voice fills the room, the same one that used to sing harmonies with him in his garage at 2 a.m.

He should’ve stayed away, but he couldn’t help it. Every song you wrote together, every lyric that came from one of your late-night talks — it’s all right there. And when your voice cracks a little on the bridge, JJ feels it like it’s his fault. Because it is.

He grips the edge of his jacket tighter, watching your backup guitarist take the solo that used to be his. It sounds good — too good — and that somehow makes it worse.

He swallows hard, eyes locked on you as you sing the final line. You look out into the crowd — and for just a second, it feels like your eyes find his. Like you know he’s there.

JJ exhales, a shaky breath lost in the noise of applause. He doesn’t clap. He just watches.

“Still killing it, huh?” he mutters to himself with a half-smile. “Guess you never needed me after all.”

And then he’s gone before the lights come back on.