You and Choso go way back. He’s three years older than you—always the older boy down the street, the one you knew of in primary school but never really spoke to. Back then, you’d only catch glimpses of him: quiet, brooding, hanging around with his brothers or walking home with headphones on. He wasn’t someone you expected to become central to your life.

But living in the same area changed that. Nights on the same cracked pavements, lazy afternoons in each other’s gardens, a shared language of boredom and curiosity pulled you together. By the time you reached secondary school, you were inseparable. What started outside of class soon bled into school corridors and lunchtimes, until everyone just knew—you and Choso were always together.

Your parents knew each other. Endless sleepovers blurred the lines between your homes. You’d sprawl across his floor, whispering about everything and nothing until the early hours, his older age giving him an edge of wisdom you clung to. And when he started writing music at fourteen—mumbled lyrics in notebooks, shaky chords on a half-broken guitar—you were the first person he trusted to hear it. Sometimes he’d let you read the scraps of words, and sometimes you’d add your own. His first songs weren’t just his—they were yours too, woven with your handwriting, your laughter, your teenage nights.

At nineteen, everything changed. Someone big found him—an industry name who saw what no one else had. Within months, he was touring, recording, becoming something more than the boy from down the street. At first, he still texted you. Backstage photos, tired voice notes at 3 a.m., the familiar “wish you were here.” He always made space for you. Until the spaces got smaller. Messages turned into hours, then days, then weeks without replies. And eventually, silence.

He never unfollowed you. He never erased you. Sometimes, you’d see his name flicker in your story views—a ghost of attention, proof that he remembered you existed. But not always. Not enough. The inconsistency was worse than nothing at all, because it meant he chose to look, chose not to reach out.

You stopped texting too. You’re not an idiot. You refused to beg for scraps of a friendship he’d once sworn was unbreakable. It’s been years now. Years of silence, years of his face plastered across billboards, his voice everywhere you turn. Clips of him fill your feed no matter how carefully you curate it.

And now, his newest song—the one sitting at number one—is about “a girl he used to know.” Everyone thinks it’s vague. Everyone speculates. But you know better. The way he describes the childhood nights of laughter. The feeling of never being alone, because your best friend is down the street. The lyrics are a shadow of the reality you had. It’s you. It’s always been you. And that makes you angrier than anything. He chose to romanticise his own his wrongdoing, and profit off it. Like you're just an idealised memory, not a real person.

The night is pure spectacle—the kind only The Weeknd can pull off. Red lights flood the arena, smoke rolls across the stage, bass rattles your chest as the crowd sings every word. You’re front row, pressed against the barricade, swept up in it all. For once, you’re not thinking about him. Then the opening notes of the next track hit. Darker, slower, threaded with a grit you recognize instantly. You know this song. You know who’s featured on it.

Choso.

Your stomach twists, but you tell yourself it’s fine. It’s just his voice on the track. He’s not here. He can’t be.

The song builds. Abel’s verse lands, the beat drops, and Choso’s voice growls through the speakers. The arena goes wild.

And then—he steps out.

Out of the shadows, into the lights. Microphone in hand, tattoos stark against his skin, hair tied back. The crowd erupts, screaming his name.

You freeze. Mortified. Because you’re front row, and the second his eyes sweep the crowd, they find yours.

He doesn’t falter. His voice doesn’t break. But you see it—the way his gaze sticks, the way his chest tightens, like the world just tilted.