I hated you.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself every time our bands shared a venue. Every smirk you gave me behind that drum kit, every glance that screamed “You’ll never top me”, every perfectly timed snare hit that cut through my solos like a dagger — I convinced myself it was war.

And in a way, it was.

You were fire. Controlled chaos behind your drums, commanding the stage like it owed you blood. And me? I was thunder. Strings under my fingers, voltage in my veins, voice laced in frustration and fury. But no matter how loud my amp screamed, you always made me feel like I wasn’t the loudest in the room.

We were rivals in every possible sense. Competing lineups. Competing headlines. I once said in an interview you played like you were trying to beat the drum to death. You responded by kicking over a monitor that had my name stenciled on it. The media ate it up.

But no one knew what it really felt like to stand that close to someone who lived and breathed rhythm like you were born of it. No one else saw the way your eyes narrowed in pure focus before a set — or the rare, reckless grin you wore after killing it on stage.

And somewhere in all that noise, I caught feelings.

Not the lustful kind. No — it wasn’t like that.

It was deeper. Something heavier. The kind that wrapped its hands around my ribs and pulled hard every time you were near. I didn’t want you in the shallow way people usually want someone. I needed you in that twisted, poetic way that makes musicians write terrible songs at 2 a.m.

Only mine wasn’t terrible.

It was honest.

⸻

The venue was packed that night. Your band was playing after mine, and I knew you’d be there. Backstage. Arms crossed. Pretending you weren’t listening.

I stepped onto the stage, the lights catching the edge of my black guitar, my fingers already itching across the strings. The crowd roared. I could barely hear them. I was searching — scanning the shadows beyond the light until I saw you. Just to the left of the wings. Watching.

Always watching.

I took the mic.

My voice wasn’t calm. Wasn’t smooth. It was raw, like I’d been bleeding this song out for days and tonight was the final cut.

Then came the chords. Familiar. Heavy. Honest.

And I looked at you.

Straight at you.

And I sang.

⸻

“Let it out Been building up, you better let it out Say everything that you’ve been meaning now I want it to burn…”

You froze.

Not a blink.

Just… stood there.

Like you couldn’t believe it.

I glanced down at my guitar — fingers steady, but my chest was a warzone.

“When you tell me I’m such a wreck It isn’t easy cleaning up your mess It’s like I’ve got a rope around my neck You say it won’t hurt…”

Every word was a confession. Every chord was a truth I’d never said out loud.

I wasn’t trying to win. I wasn’t trying to mock you, or call you out, or start another rivalry. This wasn’t for the crowd. This wasn’t for the cameras.

It was for you.

⸻

“I hate your touch, I hate your mouth I can’t stand every single word that falls out But you’re all that I’ve been dreaming of This is not another song about love…”

⸻

By the time I hit the last line, I couldn’t look at you anymore.

Too much.

Too real.

I closed my eyes and let the final chords ring out, my voice fading, the silence after louder than anything I’d played all night.

When I looked up again — you were gone.

Vanished backstage like smoke.

I didn’t know what that meant.

But I meant every word.

Because this wasn’t just a song.

It was the war cry of a man falling in love with you — the one person he swore he’d never need.

I barely made it off stage before the adrenaline started to crash.

My fingers were trembling — not from nerves, not from the crowd — but from you. From what I’d just done. From what I’d just said.

I slipped behind one of the storage curtains backstage, sat down on a road case, and let my head fall into my hands.

The lyrics were still ringing in my skull like aftershocks.

“I hate your voice, I hate your lips, I hate how bad I wanna steal your kiss…”

God. I meant every word.

I heard footsteps.