***"Sometimes I wish someone out there would find me***
***'Til then I walk alone"*** *- Green Day*
***Holden Young***
When I decided to follow my parents' advice and join a reality show, I knew things could get chaotic. It was only a matter of time before I had to deal with a level of exposure I’d never faced before.
But that’s the price of fame, and I was willing to pay it. I just didn’t know how much I’d have to give up.
I sat in a chair in front of the mirror. The dressing room was spacious, large enough to hold the organized chaos of the events backstage. Launching an album took a lot of time, money, and people.
Luckily, my team was excellent. The makeup artists were always kind, the assistants were darting back and forth, clutching clipboards and notebooks like lifelines, shouting over the cacophony of voices filling the space.
I was restless, irritated by the heat of the clothes I was wearing and the odd sensation of the “natural” makeup they insisted on applying to my face. When they finally finished styling my hair and I was practically suffocated by the overpowering smell of hairspray, I leaned against the edge of the makeup station.
Staring at my reflection in the illuminated mirror, I saw how the stylists had gone overboard this time, and I felt like I was in costume. My hair was an impasse: it looked messy and yet far too polished. My tattoos were strategically visible beneath the open collar of a suit that probably cost more than everyone’s salary combined.
It was the picture of a typical rockstar, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just playing dress-up in a ridiculous charade.
"Alright, folks! We’re on in five minutes!" someone shouted, snapping me out of my trance and back into the chaotic reality.
Walking out of the dressing room, I glanced around and saw other artists scattered about. They posed for backstage photos and filled their Instagram stories as if their lives depended on it. And the more I saw, the more I realized how fake it all was. Everything was orchestrated, and it felt absurd.
And then, emerging from the crowd, there was Chloe. My new “partner,” as Cyrus insisted on calling her. It still sounded wrong.
She was in her private dressing room, slightly smaller than mine, chatting animatedly with her team while a stylist adjusted the hem of her glittering dress. That smile—it was dazzling, I could admit that. But it was just like the others I had seen moments before: fake.
When she turned to respond to a request, she caught sight of me standing outside. I gave her a barely-there nod, and she lit up with excitement, her eyes shimmering with something I didn’t want to believe was hope.
I didn’t know what they had promised this girl, but I couldn’t live up to the expectations she’d built around it.
The thought of maintaining this story tied my stomach in knots. But the more time passed without an explanation from Alissa, the more I felt like maybe this would get her attention.
I know it sounds childish—maybe it is—but I wanted her to feel the pain I was feeling if she still cared at all.
I knew Chloe was taking this little “romance story” that the PR team had fabricated seriously. She played the role perfectly, sending the tabloids into a frenzy over us, fueling the narrative of a love story born from our shared passion for music. But I had been clear—or at least I thought I had. This was business. Nothing more.
"Holden!" Cyrus appeared out of nowhere, his ever-present iPad in hand. He adjusted his tie with one hand and gestured toward an exit with the other. "You’re on in ten minutes. Try not to look like you’re about to kill someone, alright?"
I shot him a look but didn’t bother to respond. He was right. My frustration was written all over my face.
"Chloe’s already in place," he added with that insufferable smirk I hated. I wasn’t his biggest fan right now, and he kept pushing, trying to convince me this was the best move. "Be nice."
I brushed past him without a word and headed toward the stage area. Chloe was already waiting, her face lighting up in a wide smile the moment she saw me. Her cloying perfume hit me—raspberries, overly sweet.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice brimming with enthusiasm as her hand reached up to adjust the collar of my suit. She hesitated for a moment, but I gave her a slight nod. I didn’t want to be a jerk; I knew she was trying to create some kind of connection for the public eye.
I took a step back, keeping her at a safe distance. “Always.”
The curtains opened, and the circus began. But we were the main attraction. Well, she was. Chloe immediately linked her arm with mine, her fingers resting lightly on my forearm as we walked under the blinding flashes.
The host introduced us with an over-the-top enthusiasm that could only be described as performative. I tried not to blush from the embarrassment, still unaccustomed to this level of exposure, especially under the pretense of a fake relationship.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the couple everyone’s been talking about: Holden Young and Chloe Laurent!”
Couple… I would never get used to that.
The audience erupted into cheers, a sea of ecstatic, unfamiliar faces celebrating a story that wasn’t real. Chloe leaned toward me, her perfect smile in place as we posed for the cameras.
"You’re so good at this," she whispered, her tone playful.
I turned my head slightly, just enough for the cameras to capture what looked like an intimate exchange. But my words weren’t what she was expecting.
"This is all fake, Chloe," I murmured, my voice low but firm. "Don’t get attached."
Her smile faltered for the briefest moment before recovering, letting out a light laugh as if I had made a joke. "You’re so funny," she said loudly, maintaining the charade for the crowd.
But I saw the spark dim in her eyes. Chloe really believed there could be something between us. Maybe she needed this story to feel real amidst all the chaos.
But I couldn’t be the person to give her what she needed—not when my mind was oscillating between career pressures and the ache in my chest.
I knew that, by the end of the night, one face would still haunt my thoughts before I fell asleep—just like it had for years. That wasn’t going to change so easily now.