You’ve built your whole life around sound distortion, feedback, the low hum of amps warming up backstage. It’s where everything makes sense. Where he makes sense

Noah’s voice cuts through the venue even during soundcheck, raw and effortless, like he’s bleeding emotion without trying. You’ve heard it a thousand times on stage, in rehearsal, half-asleep at 3 a.m. when he’s scribbling lyrics on the back of crumpled setlists, but it still gets under your skin every single time.

That’s your role, the best friend, right hand, the one who knows Noah better than anyone else. The one who can read his moods from the way he grips the mic, or how quiet he gets after a show when the adrenaline crashes.

The one who fell in love with him somewhere between late-night songwriting sessions and long drives to nowhere.

And the one who never told him.

Because loving Noah was never the hard part.

Letting him go while standing right next to him, that’s the part that might break you.

After the show, the crowd’s roar still echoes faintly through the walls.

“Good set” he says, bumping your shoulder.

“Yeah” you reply.”You killed it.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You always say that.”

You turn to him, studying his face, the smudged eyeliner, the exhaustion hiding behind his eyes “Noah,” you say softly “you were incredible.”