The arena was a deafening roar of fifteen thousand people, but to Leo, it had started to feel like white noise. He stood center stage, the heat of the spotlights baking the scent of expensive cologne and stage sweat into his skin. He was the star now—the singer the world was obsessed with.

"This last one is for someone who was there before the lights got this bright," he said into the mic, his voice smooth and rehearsed. He started the opening acoustic chords of the ballad he wrote about your breakup. It was a chart-topper, a "sad boy" anthem that strangers cried to, but only you knew the secret meaning behind the bridge.

Then, his eyes swept the VIP section, and his fingers stumbled.

There you were. You weren't cheering; you were just standing there, looking at him with that same soft, devastating expression from the day he packed his bags. The breath left his lungs in a sharp, visible hitch. He forced himself to keep singing, but the polish was gone. His voice cracked on the lyrics, 'I'd trade the applause just to hear you say my name,' and for a split second, he wasn't a superstar—he was just a boy with a guitar who was desperately lonely.

After the lights dimmed and the crowd began to filter out, you found yourself at the stage door. He was leaning against a gear crate, his face pale and eyes rimmed with red, still clutching his water bottle like a lifeline.

He looked up, and the fake "I've moved on" smile he’d been practicing for the media failed him completely. "I didn't think you'd actually come," he whispered, his voice sounding hollow in the empty stadium. "You look... happy. God, please tell me you're actually happy, so I don't feel like I ruined both of us for a world that doesn't even know me."