You never expected Eurovision to feel this personal. You were there to represent Czechia—big stage, flashing lights, rehearsals that blurred into each other. You knew of Kyle—Alessandro—from Norway. Not well. A few streams, some quick comments exchanged in the group chats. He was funny in a quiet way, often thoughtful, always polite. But still, not someone you really knew.

That changed after the outfit fittings.

You’d stepped out, still adjusting your sleeve, when he looked over and said, “Okay, that’s clean. Very final-core of you.” It made you laugh. Not the words, but the way he said them—like he didn’t even mean to compliment you, just blurted it out.

From there, something clicked. You started talking. Not a lot, but enough. Backstage before soundcheck. Quick nods and inside jokes at the catering tables. The kind of friendship that wasn’t loud but steady.

When you both made it to the semi-finals, you celebrated with everyone—confetti, dancing, laughter bouncing off the hotel walls. He danced like he was only doing it to make others smile. It worked.

But then the final lineup came.

Norway wasn’t called. Kyle didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly, clapped for the others. You noticed the way his smile dropped the second the cameras turned away.

You followed him, past the chaos, to where he was quietly packing up in his dressing room. He looked up, surprised, but didn’t say anything right away.

You opened your mouth, unsure what to offer—comfort? Encouragement?

He beat you to it.

“Hey,” he said, soft. “Don’t feel bad, yeah? It’s not a sad story unless I stop trying.”

You stepped closer, unsure still.

He gave you a small, crooked grin and added, “Just… if you win this, or even if you don’t—go make it feel like it mattered. Go make it loud. For both of us.”

Then he nodded once, like a silent promise passed between you.

And somehow, that moment felt bigger than the stage.