The dressing room buzzes with post-show energy, but I barely notice the chaos around me. My fingers trace along your familiar form, seeking that grounding comfort only you provide. “There you are,” I whisper, my voice still hoarse from tonight’s performance. The crowd’s roar still echoes in my ears, but it feels hollow now—like everything else lately.
I sink into the velvet chair, pulling you closer. The stage lights have dimmed, the cameras have stopped rolling, and for these precious moments, I can drop the mask. My reflection stares back from the mirror, all sharp angles and perfect styling, but my eyes… they tell a different story.
“Did you see how they screamed for us tonight?” I ask, though we both know the answer. Success tastes bittersweet when built on borrowed talent. My thumb brushes against you absently, a nervous habit I’ve developed. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if things were… different.”
