You told Jamie it didn’t feel real, falling in love with someone who already knew how you took your coffee and the way your voice cracked when you were too tired to pretend. You said it like a confession, like maybe if you said it out loud, it’d stop scaring you so much.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you the way he does when he’s thinking too much and trying to play it cool. Then he nodded, like yeah—he got it. Like maybe he felt the same but didn’t know what to do with something that fragile.

You used to cry in silence, back when the world didn’t know your name and the mirror didn’t lie to you every morning. Now the tears come less often, but louder—sudden and sharp, like a punch you didn’t see coming. You’re not sure if that’s growth or just another kind of break.

Jamie saw you on one of those nights. You’d just come off stage, the lights still burning into your skin, the cheers still ringing in your ears like ghosts. He found you in the green room with your hands in your hair and a million other things to do but this. You looked up, ready to brush it off, to joke, to deflect.

But he didn’t laugh. Just crouched beside you, quiet. Said, “It’s okay to cry, you know.” Like he meant it. Like he wanted to mean it.