Chapter Text
The roar of 80,000 people was supposed to be intoxicating. It was supposed to be the purest form of love—unconditional, loud, and directed straight at her. Korra Waters, or simply “Korra” on every billboard from Tokyo to Toronto, stood backstage, the vibration of the crowd humming up through the floor of the stadium and into her bones.
She watched the clock tick down to the start of her encore, her reflection staring back from the darkened screen of her phone. Perfect turquoise eyeliner, artfully messy hair, and a tired, practiced smile. She was The Alt-Pop Star, the queen of the melancholic anthem, the voice of a generation’s quiet heartache.
But Korra felt like a cardboard cutout in the spotlight. She knew why. Every song, every lyric that brought in the millions of streams and the screaming fans, was a perfectly crafted love letter to a person who would never read it as anything but poetry.
“Five minutes, Kor,” Kuvira, her childhood friend and current tour manager, announced, leaning against the doorframe. Kuvira’s expression, always serious, softened when she looked at Korra. She knew the truth. All of Korra’s inner circle—Mako, Bolin, Kai—knew.
Korra nodded, picking up her acoustic-electric guitar. “It’s time for the sad song, huh?”
“It’s time for the song that just went platinum in three countries and is currently number one on the global charts,” Kuvria corrected gently. “It’s ‘Satellite.’ Don’t you dare call it just a sad song.”
Korra tuned a string, the sound tiny against the stadium’s massive silence. “It is, though. It’s the saddest.”
She closed her eyes, and in the dark space behind her lids, she didn’t see the stadium lights; she saw a memory: Asami Sato, laughing on a high school rooftop, her perfect black hair whipping around her face in the wind, entirely unaware that Korra, sitting beside her, was already writing a life-long soundtrack to their friendship.
Korra opened her eyes, finding a focused spot on the worn wood of her guitar. Time to sing the secret to the world.
The lights cut out completely. The crowd volume surged, a physical wave of sound. When the first spotlight hit her on the small secondary stage at the far end of the arena, Korra began to play.
The opening chords of “Satellite” were simple—a delicate, repeating arpeggio that sounded like rain hitting glass. The melody was haunting, the kind of tune that burrows deep into your chest before you even realize you’re crying.
Korra leaned into the mic and let the words she had penned for Asami, and only Asami, fill the immense space.
As Korra finished the final chord, the cheering was overwhelming. She gave the crowd her practiced, grateful smile, her mind already racing ahead. She was taking her long-overdue creative break, and she was heading home.
Kuvira had warned her that Asami was in town, and that her boyfriend, Iroh, was with her.
She lowered the guitar and let the applause wash over her. She had built a fortress around her heart using platinum records as bricks. But going home meant stepping back inside Asami’s atmosphere, and for the first time in years, Korra was afraid her protective layer might burn away entirely.
She had to go home, but she couldn’t risk telling the truth.