You weren’t supposed to go onstage.

You were just passing through, like someone drifting between borrowed lights. They invited you out of courtesy, for the scandal, for the name but you weren’t even on the lineup.

And yet, there you are. Beneath the lights. Shirt unbuttoned, voice dripping, fingers tangled around the microphone like it’s the neck of someone who owes you a night.

Ed O’Brien wasn’t expecting to see you.

Nor you, him so still at the edge of the stage, holding a warm beer in his long fingers, looking at you like he’s trying to decipher an ancient language.

You see him there. Tall. Luminous. Different from the others. Not because he doesn’t desire but because he hides it.

After the show, you find him leaning against one of those black railings backstage. Cigarette between his lips, unlit. He smiles at you like he doesn’t quite know how to begin.