***Holden Young***
***If there was a hell, I was getting a free sample of it. Every day on tour was a*** confusing blur of so much alcohol that, mixed with sleepless nights and an exhausting routine, I barely knew who I was or where I was when I woke up.
That is, if I was even awake—most of the time, I was passed out drunk somewhere.
At the same time that everything flashed by in a blur when I blinked, time dragged painfully slow whenever I looked at the calendar, as if the entire tour was just one endless, unbearable performance. I sang, I smiled, I pretended everything was fine—a real show.
And afterward? Afterward, I drowned myself in whatever was available to numb me, to escape the miserable reality I was stuck in.
Whiskey, drugs, empty people who wanted a piece of me just as much as I wanted to use them to forget everything for a few hours. But no matter how hard I tried, nothing filled the hole that was growing in my chest.
Alissa.
She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. And now, my own damn voice tortured me every time I sang that damn song. My impulsive actions kept chasing me like karma.
It felt like I was losing myself, sinking into a limbo I wasn’t sure I could ever escape.
"Man, if you don’t pull yourself together, you’re gonna screw everything up."
I blinked a few times, realizing we were in the dressing room before the show. Chloe was sitting at the other end of the couch, scrolling through her phone, completely ignoring the usual chaos around us.
I rolled my eyes, searching for his furious face in the room.
"Relax, Cyrus… I’m fine," I muttered under my breath.
He crossed his arms, his expression dripping with sarcasm.
"Oh, sure! You look fantastic, Holden. You skipped two rehearsals, slept through soundcheck, and now you’re either drunk or high—or both—right before going on stage."
Chloe glanced in my direction, looking beyond fed up with this never-ending argument between me and Cyrus.
"Relax, Cyrus. Fans love a problematic rockstar—just like in those fanfics." She chewed her gum, blowing a bubble before popping it. She was joking, but I caught the irritation laced in her voice.
I wasn’t the only one tired of this façade.
"I can handle it," I said, even though I knew it was a lie.
I could lie to everyone, but my body knew the truth. My muscles ached, my head felt like it had a lead weight strapped to it. My hands were shaking, and my patience was too thin to keep listening to Cyrus go on about responsibility and professionalism.
Fuck professionalism.
Fuck the tour.
Fuck all of this.
"It’s time," one of the assistants announced, opening the door.
Chloe got up, running a hand through her hair in an automatic gesture before shooting me a sharp look.
"If you screw this up, Cyrus is gonna kill you."
I laughed because it was exactly the kind of thing she’d say.
"If I screw this up, I don’t think he’ll have to."
I was the last one to leave the dressing room, ignoring the knot in my stomach that always showed up before a show. It wasn’t nerves. It was something else.
Something I didn’t have the courage to say out loud.
The crowd hit me like a tidal wave. That deafening noise that used to be my fuel, the blinding lights, the roaring cheers—the kind of energy that was supposed to keep me alive.
But all I could feel was exhaustion. My eyelids were heavy, my body still ached, and I could probably pass out right there on stage.
And then, the show started, pushing through my discomfort.
The first song came, then the second.
Chloe played her part perfectly—dancing, interacting, playing the role of the perfect girlfriend. I was running on autopilot, responding just enough so no one would notice I was about to fall apart.
And then, that song came.
That damn song I never should’ve played—if regret could kill, I’d already be dead.
Actually, I was close.
The first chords echoed through the stadium, and my stomach twisted into a knot I couldn’t even describe. The crowd went wild, unaware that I was about to break down right in front of them.
I gripped the microphone tightly, trying to remember why the hell I ever thought singing this was a good idea.
And then the lyrics came—or rather, they should have.
I opened my mouth to sing the first verse, and nothing came out.
The silence was enough to make the band falter, the musicians exchanging confused looks as they waited for me to snap out of it.
I tried again.
Nothing.
I could feel the cold base of the microphone, the weight of the guitar strapped to my chest, the rush of cold air as my mouth stayed open—waiting for my brain to work, for something to come out.
Shit.
The beat kept going, relentless, forcing me to continue, to push forward like I wasn’t completely falling apart.
And then, when I finally managed to get something out, the words came out wrong.
So wrong.
It was like getting punched in the gut, a blow that sent me spiraling down.
I had hit rock bottom, and I hit it so damn fast.
The crowd sang along, trying to fill the gap of my mistake. Chloe turned to me, confusion written all over her face—even as she kept smiling, a robotic, almost eerie grin.
And I did the only thing that made sense in that moment—I dropped the mic and walked off the stage.
The screams followed me, cameras flashing as I stormed off.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cyrus running toward me, his face a mixture of fury and panic.
But I was already gone.
I grabbed the motorcycle I had for the trip.
I needed to get out of there.
I needed to breathe, to make sense of it all.
And more than anything, I needed to forget what had just happened.