The thought repeats, a metronome within my chest. The kind that doesn’t keep time, it measures anticipation. The lights backstage are softer than they ever are on stage, but they still feel too bright when she walks in. Seven, just like she said. I’ve spent all day pretending I wasn’t counting down, but my body betrays me, heart rate up, palms damp, throat gone dry like I’ve been shouting for hours though I haven’t said a word.
The noise around us, the crew, the cables, the smell of sweat and smoke suddenly drops a few decibels. She spots me and smiles and it’s like every lyric I’ve written about light finally gets its context.
“Hey,” I manage.Wow, smooth Rafe. One syllable, you did it, great job. I can tell my voice is a little rough and I try to clear it. She smiles and I know, I'm in trouble.
Ronan, keeps it light. He’s already shaking her hand, introducing himself, Kiri gives a polite nod, and Rithy… well, Rithy just half-smiles and keeps tuning his guitar. I can feel Kasia’s eyes flick between them, curious, open. I want to tell her everything, and nothing, all at once. She's close enough now that I can actually smell her shampoo, not the dream world version and it's better than I remembered, mixed with the heat of her.
It hits me that the last time we were this close was in her exam chair, when the air between us crackled and I pretended I didn’t notice. The memory flashes in my head, too vivid, and my pulse stutters. Her eyes meet mine, steady and kind and for a second the entire world feels small. I think about leaning forward, about forgetting that there’s a curtain and a crowd waiting beyond it but I can’t.
“Come on,” I say, half-clearing my throat, nodding toward the stage. “Råvind are good. You’ll like them.”
She follows me to the wings, our hands ghosting each other’s knuckles for a heartbeat. I swear, as the music starts and the crowd roars, my chest isn’t keeping time with anything except her.
The house lights drop again and the opening band takes the stage, the whole place erupting like thunder in a bottle. I’ve played this venue three times before, but tonight it feels different. I’m not on yet, I’minit, off to the side where the monitors buzz, sitting just close enough to see her profile under the blue stage lights.
She's next to me, cross-legged on a crate, her hair catching the glow like something cinematic. We can’t talk without shouting over the crowd, so we just exist there, shoulder to shoulder, in this charged stillness wrapped inside all that noise. Every few seconds our eyes meet, and I have to look away before I can’t stop.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
Flight was good, the turbulence was terrible.
My sister loves it, says it's like a rollercoaster.
love is a strong descriptor
I can take or leave turbulence.
I love that you're here.
She looks up, lips twitching, and I realize this is the best I’ve felt all day. A few more messages bounce between us. Her asking if I always look this tense before shows. Me deflecting with a joke about stage lighting making me allergic. It isn’t enough.
She’sright here. My hand, it keeps brushing my thigh, uselessly wiping away sweat that won’t stop forming. I’m supposed to be theone who performs calm, who breathes rhythm. Instead, my pulse has its own time signature, and it’s nowhere near steady.
Freja, Råvind’s drummer, hits a tight 3/4 groove. My leg starts marking it, instinctive, fingers tapping out each bar against my knee. Then I glance at her, how she’s following the music, head tilted and I get an idea. I reach for her hand, it feels like a dare, but I do it anyway and she lets me.
I turn her palm upward, rest my fingertips there, and start tracing the beat against her skin: one-two-three, one-two-three. Soft, precise. The rhythm that’s been caged in my chest all night finally has somewhere to go. She looks at me then, not startled, just still.
I lean in, close enough for my lips to touch her ear. “This is what it feels like,” I whisper-yell. She nods once and doesn’t pull away. So I keep going, each measure sinking deeper into her pulse until I can’t tell if I’m playing the rhythm or following it. When the song ends, the crowd explodes. The band thanks everyone, guitars hum their last feedback note.
I don’t let go, not right away. Her hand stays in mine, warm, alive, trembling just enough for me to feel it and I realize that for all the times I’ve played in front of thousands, this is the first time I’ve felt real nerves.
By the time the house lights dip again and the intro track rolls, my pulse’s already matching the click in my ears. The roar that goes up is tidal, every time, it still catches me. I glance once over my shoulder andthere she is, right where I told her to be, tucked into the crowd but still close enough that I can find her and I do, instantly.
Then it’s all motion. Ronan counts us in and I step forward into the heat. Kiri locks the first line of bass and it’s like a heart beat settling. I ride the groove, that pulse, that deep pluck of his strings pinning everything in place, while Ronan drives like he’s trying to break through the floor. Every cymbal hit ricochets in my bones.
Rithy’s grinning like he owns the night, swaggering toward me during the first chorus, our old routine, that flirtatious, chaotic back-and-forth the crowd eats alive. His guitar and my voice tangle midair; the girls scream when he leans too close, when I move against him to the beat of the song, then push him playfully back into place. He leaves me with a wink before he pops his pick between his teeth, opting to pluck the strings with that beautiful ease he’s always possessed. I could watch him play for hours, easily.
The set keeps climbing. Every song hits harder, faster. Sweat runs down the back of my neck and the lights are blinding, but I feel good, loose, wild,alive. When I hit the first solo, Rithy mirrors me, and for a second it’s perfect chemistry, the kind that tastes like oxygen and adrenaline. Then it all stills, and the band drops out.
I move to the piano, and the world contracts to a single white spotlight. The first note echoes, soft and low. I look out and find her again. There she is, her face lit by screen glow, watching. The words come out rougher than rehearsal, my voice cracking in a way that somehow feels better. Every line, every admission, lands heavier, truer. The audience doesn’t hush so much as lean in; they feel it too, that current running through the air.
By the time the chorus hits, my throat’s raw and it doesn’t matter. The band joins back in and everything expands again, the lights, the sound, the pulse of the crowd. I scream through the bridge, and for thefirst time in a long time it doesn’t feel like a wound. It feels hopeful. Because she’s here, and suddenly the world isn’t as heavy anymore.
The last chord slams, noise crashes over us. Then nothing but heartbeat and ringing ears. We stumble offstage one by one, half-drunk on the energy. Sweat slicks down my back, my hands shaking, the veil sticking to my skin. I yank it off, shove it in my pocket, and I’m still catching my breath when I see her.
Before I can think, before I can say a word, I’m moving. Running, really. She’s laughing as I crash into her, arms wrapping tight, her face buried in my shoulder. The black paint swirls that once mimicked claw marks have melted into a mess along my arms, and when I hold her, they smear across her white shirt wherever we touch. When we pull apart, it’s too late. She looks down, sees the streaks, and laughs harder.
“Souvenir,” I manage, grinning like an idiot.
