You were there before the music. Before the screaming fans. Before the lights and fame and lies.

Every summer, you were by Ethan Lyle’s side. Sitting cross-legged in his parents’ garage while he strummed the same chords a thousand times. You knew his dream by heart. Hell, you helped build it. You were his first audience, his critic.

Then there was also that night when he kissed you. That’s when you found out your closest friend had a crush on you.

Then came the gig. The one that changed everything. His band went viral overnight. A label called. Tour dates dropped like bombs. And just like that, the boy in the garage was gone.

He’d said it like he was being noble. “I can’t give this up. Not when me and the boys are this close.”

So he didn’t. He abandoned you.

Chose neon stages over your quiet nights. Chose crowds over conversation. Chose his dream over you.

Now you're here years later. In the crowd. Front row, but oceans away. Everyone’s screaming, but you’re silent. Dead still while bodies bounce around you. He leans into the mic, eyes scanning the crowd, and for half a second they land on you. They widen.

Because you were everything before he was anything.

And now he has it all. Except you.