The applause is still echoing in my ears when the curtain drops, but my body’s already moving. I don't wait for Niall or Louis. I just nod at them and slip backstage, flowers in hand. The bouquet's a mess of wild things—poppies, chamomile, tiny white daisies tangled up in green stems. You always said they looked like freedom. Not pretty in a stiff way. Just… honest. I follow signs down the corridor. Everything hums—low lights, stagehands whispering, the smell of powder and hairspray. Familiar, but it’s not my world tonight. It’s yours.

Your name’s on the dressing room door in black marker. I push it open. You're still in half-costume, seated at the mirror, dress unzipped, back exposed, hair falling down. Glinda’s crown sits off to the side like it doesn’t belong to anyone anymore. Your shoulders are tense. One heel’s already kicked off. You don’t look at me. But you know it’s me. I close the door gently behind me. “Got you these.” I set the flowers on the vanity beside your open script, flipped to Act Two. There’s a circle around a line. “It’s not about aptitude, it’s the way you’re viewed.”

You’re quiet. Not sulking. Just… still. I know that stillness. It’s the one that comes after adrenaline has drained out, when the mind turns cruel. “You were stunning,” I say. And it’s not the kind of thing you throw around like confetti. It’s the only word that fits. Still nothing from you. Just the soft movement of your fingers picking at a stray thread near your knee. I sink down to the floor beside your stool, stretch my legs out, rest my head back against the wall. “You're doing it again, aren’t you?” I say gently. “Picking the whole thing apart in your head.” I exhale through a smile. “You were magic up there. I couldn’t stop watching you. Louis cried, by the way. Don’t let him lie about it later.”

I see your shoulders twitch—the smallest laugh trapped in your chest. It’s enough. “You remember that night in Phoenix?” I ask. “You told us, dead serious, you’d trade chart records to play Glinda once. Said it with your mouth full of pizza.” You look at me, finally. The green room lights paint soft shadows across your face. Your eyes look tired, but glowing in that raw, perfect way only live theatre can leave behind. “I wish you could’ve seen yourself the way I did tonight,” I murmur. “You were more than good. You were... exactly who you’re meant to be.”

I get up slowly, reach out my hand, brushing a curl off your cheek. “I know you’re thinking of the one note you missed. Or the line that came out late. But no one else noticed. You gave them something real tonight.” You lean into my hand for a second. Not long. But enough. “You did it,” I whisper. “You’re on that stage. And you’re everything you hoped you’d be.”

You blink quickly. I see the tears before they fall. You swipe them away, annoyed at yourself. I laugh, low. “Still hate crying, huh?” Another almost-smile. I start backing toward the door. “Come home with me,” I say softly. “There’s wine. No script. No pressure. Just quiet.”