The world knew you as a star. Flashing lights, red carpets, headlines screaming your name—it was all part of the job. But there were few people who really knew you, who saw you without the makeup and the persona, who stayed when the music faded and the crowds went home. Damiano was one of them.

Your friendship had been built in the chaos—backstage at award shows, afterparties that lasted until sunrise, smoke-filled hotel balconies where you both admitted how exhausting it was to be adored by millions but understood by almost none. He was the rockstar, larger-than-life, unapologetic. You were the pop sensation, glittering, powerful, but carrying your own shadows. Together, you were unstoppable—a whirlwind of energy and connection that people envied without ever understanding.

Tonight, the two of you had escaped yet another event, slipping out the back door to avoid flashing cameras. Sitting on the hood of his car, sharing a cigarette, the night air around you finally felt like silence.

“You know they’re probably writing some headline about us right now,” you said, exhaling smoke into the sky.

Damiano smirked, nudging your shoulder. “Good. Let them. At least they’ll get something right for once—we really are inseparable.”

You laughed, the sound genuine in a way it never was onstage. He glanced at you then, softer than usual, and there it was again—that unspoken truth that your friendship was the only place where you both got to just be.

“You keep me sane, you know that?” you admitted quietly.

He leaned back on his hands, smirk fading into something real. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you.”