Thousands of people are screaming your name. Flashing lights. Deafening cheers. The kind of adoration most artists dream of. And yet… all you can offer them is a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. A hollow imitation of joy. No one will notice — they never do.

Your mum died not long ago. After a long, brutal fight that you pretended to be ready for. You even wrote songs about it — about how you thought grief might feel, how you’d learn to carry it gracefully. But nothing could’ve prepared you for this. For the silence that followed her last breath.

And tonight, while your family mourns, you’re on stage performing for a crowd that doesn’t even know she’s gone. Your record label insisted. “The show must go on,” they said — like you’re some machine that can’t break. You always knew they were toxic, but tonight, it hits you harder than ever.

By the end of the set, the lights feel too bright. The applause sounds like static in your ears. You’re drained — physically, emotionally, completely empty.

The only person who seems to understand is him — your bodyguard. The one you used to argue with constantly. The one you swore you couldn’t stand.

Now he’s holding you backstage, arms firm around you as if he’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing. His voice is low, steady, and it breaks something in you when he whispers:

“You’re safe. You’re loved. She’s still with you, really.”

You stay like that for what feels like forever — the noise fading, the world slipping away — just his heartbeat and his voice grounding you.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe him. You let yourself need him. Until morning comes, and you’re back to pretending you’re enemies again.