Page 32 of Anything But Lonely

The one I used to listen to on repeat. Over and over again. And never get sick of it.

But ever since my mom died, it hits too close to home.

It’s the only Cross My Heart song I always have to skip.

Just like before with the stupid pink block, my heart rate rockets.

I hear pieces of the song as Mateo sings, the sound carrying through the empty venue in a way that feels almost too intimate. There’s no crowd screaming, no lights, no thousands of people between him and the words. Just him, the band, and the few of us standing in the grass watching.

Liam picks Crew up as he cheers for his dad.

I see when Mateo notices his son, holding the microphone in one hand, he points directly at him with the other. His voice is raw and raspy with this emotional edge that just pours out of him so seamlessly. And when he smiles at his son, it’s like capturing a moment so memorable you don’t even need a camera.

The lyrics hit me before I can stop them.

About putting your arms around a ghost. About having to close the door on the only love you knew.

Words I’ve never said out loud, somehow coming from his mouth.

I know what it feels like to carry someone who isn’t there anymore. To keep reaching for them. To wish you could say goodbye.

Because some ghosts don't haunt houses.

They haunt you.

Mateo’s voice drops lower as he reaches the end of the second chorus, holding onto a note long enough that it settles somewhere deep in my chest. The kind of note that makes the empty venue feel smaller. I don’t even notice the stage light blocking or line checking—I barely register Liam putting Crew on his shoulders or Crew’s mumbled singing of the lyrics.

“Hit ’em with the riff,” he yells into the mic, pointing toward Theo just before the guitar cuts through the air, filling the space between the seats and the stage. Theo plays through the solo, and even without an audience, the energy shifts. Like the space remembers what it's supposed to feel like when thousands of people are screaming back.

Then the music cuts.

And suddenly it’s just Mateo.

His voice carries through the speakers, his face on the screens surrounding the stage. He’s stripped of everything else as he sings about someone still being right there with him. About being unable to say goodbye. About needing to let go.

I don't move.

Because he’s singing about the exact thing I’ve been refusing to name. And somehow, it feels like he’s singing directly to me.

The instruments build again, each note layering on top of the last until the final chorus crashes through the venue. The words settle into me, not like a song I’m hearing for the first time, but like something I’ve known all along.

Something that was waiting for someone else to say it first.

His eyes close as he reaches the last chorus, his fingers tightening around the microphone while his voice fills the space between us.

He’s different up there. Different from the man I saw at the bar or talked to last night.

It’s like this is the one place where he doesn’t have to wonder what he’s supposed to be.

And that thought has me longing for something I didn’t know I wanted.

A place where I don’t have to wonder where I’m meant to be.

A place where I can be anything but lonely.

When the song ends, the last note hangs in the air for a moment before fading away.

And in the silence that follows, I realize I forgot there was anyone else here.