***Holden Young***
The first show of the tour was an absolute success. At least, that’s what everyone said.
The crowd screamed my name, the lights flashed at the perfect moments, the photographers captured the best angles—mine and Chloe’s, of course—and the production team executed everything flawlessly. Everything was exactly as it should be.
But to me, it didn’t feel anything like I had imagined.
It was like watching my own life from the outside, seeing the spectacle unfold without actually being present. The crowd roared, absorbing my every movement, every word I sang as if they were sacred scriptures.
And yet, I felt nothing. Nothing but that unbearable weight in my chest, that emptiness I kept trying to fill with music, alcohol, and the illusion that everything was fine.
After the show, I went back to the dressing room without saying a word to anyone. Chloe tried to approach me, her smile carrying that artificial tone I knew all too well, and it pissed me off.
“You were incredible,” she said, leaning against the dressing room door, holding a champagne glass.
“Great,” I forced a laugh, throwing a towel over my shoulders and sitting on the couch, reaching for the whiskey bottle they had left for me.
Chloe hesitated for a second before stepping inside. She was good at being where she wasn’t welcome.
“Are you okay?”
I rolled my eyes.
“If I weren’t, would it change anything?”
Blunt, but honest.
She pressed her lips together, disappointed, and set her glass down on the table beside her.
“You’re acting strange, Holden. More than usual.”
I took a sip of the whiskey, feeling the warmth burn down my throat.
“I’m fine, Chloe. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”
She sighed, frustrated, but didn’t push further. Deep down, we barely knew each other. Her discomfort came from the fact that she had an image of me that only existed in front of the cameras.
The click of the door closing behind her was a relief.
I sat there on the soft leather couch, staring at nothing while the noise outside continued. The crew was celebrating, toasting to the night’s success, already preparing for the next show.
But all I could think about was what came next.
The next morning. The next show. Another day on tour.
This was my life now.
I wanted to drown myself in work to forget. But no matter how hard I tried, everything was still there. Her absence was still there.
And then came the second show.
The lights were blinding, but the adrenaline was good—for now. The audience felt like a single entity, an intense force screaming and pulsing in unison. They sang with me, fed off every chord, and I was supposed to be feeding off their energy too.
But my mind kept drifting elsewhere whenever I blinked or let my focus slip.
The band followed the setlist as planned, and I went through everything on autopilot. I knew exactly when to smile and deliver my poorly scripted jokes from the teleprompter. I knew when to point at the crowd, when to lower my voice so the fans could sing along. It was all mechanical.
A perfect theater, a beautiful spectacle.
But I felt like an imposter on my own stage.
That’s when I realized I had to do something. Anything to feel again, to stop losing myself inside my own dream.
It wasn’t fair—to me or to those who gave everything to see me perform.
“Hold the lights,” I said into the microphone, impulsively, before the encore.
The band looked at me, confused. They were following the script, just like everyone else. But I didn’t wait for questions. I played the first chords.
Her song. The one we wrote before she left.
For a second, the stadium fell into absolute silence as the audience processed that this was something new. Then, the screams grew louder, a wave of phones rising to capture the unexpected moment. But none of that mattered.
My eyes burned.
Only the words mattered.
Words that weren’t mine. Words she had written years ago, when we were just two kids full of ideas and dreams—before we learned how hard the world could be. And sometimes, how cruel.
Each verse tightened something inside me. A knot formed in my throat, and I let that feeling tear through me.
"I still wait for you between the lines of my songs,
But you’ve stopped listening."
My voice faltered for a second.
It was stupid.
I had worked on this song for years. I tested different melodies, effects that never quite fit. But it had to be this way. Raw. Just as it was meant to be. Just my voice and the guitar blending into the necessary symphony.
But the regret came too late.
I should never have sung that song.
But now, it was done.
The sound of the final note echoed through the packed stadium. The crowd went wild, having no idea that this wasn’t just another unforgettable performance by the great Holden Young.
Only one person would understand what it really meant.
And I needed her to hear it.
To give me a sign that she was still with me. Even from afar.
...
My heart was still racing when I entered my hotel room.
I couldn’t think. I couldn’t hesitate.
I grabbed my phone, opened the music distribution app, and uploaded the track that had been ready for years.
No title. No announcement. No credits.
The marketing team would lose their minds.
But I didn’t care.
I just wanted her to hear it.
And if she still felt anything for me, that would be enough to bring her back.