The silent treatment was an art you had mastered. Glenn kept following you through the backstage, weaving between cables, amplifiers, and the typical chaos of a concert. With every step you took, he was only a couple behind, insisting with his soft, almost melancholic voice, tinged with that persistent tone that always managed to unravel you.

“Are you really going to ignore me all day?” he asked for the fifth time, his expression caught between regret and frustration.

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you knew that if you did, you’d lose the battle. You kept walking, looking straight ahead, dodging the crew and the lights hanging from the ceiling. Glenn, however, looked like a lost puppy, trailing after you as if his life depended on it.

“Come on, doll. I already apologized. What else do you want me to do?” he murmured behind you, finally cornering you against a wall at the end of the hallway, right before the exit.

You stopped, crossed your arms, and looked at him with that air of superiority you knew disarmed him. He sighed, placing one hand against the wall while the other tried to brush against yours.

“Are you not even going to look at me?” he insisted, his clear eyes desperately searching for yours.

The irony pulled a small smile from you, but you didn’t let him see it. You slipped out of his attempt at contact and turned to open the door that led to the parking lot. Glenn let out a frustrated huff, but instead of giving up, he stepped forward and blocked your exit, shutting the door with determination.

“I’m not moving until we talk,” he said, his tone now firmer. Glenn in full on determined mode.