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I wasn’t supposed to be looking at her.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway, standing at the edge of the auditorium, fingers still buzzing from the bass vibrating through the floor. The lights are hot, the applause is louder than it deserves to be, and my bandmates are grinning like we just won something permanent.
But I don’t hear the clapping anymore.
I see Nova.
She’s standing near the aisle, half in shadow, half caught in the spill of the stage lights. Everyone else is blurred, parents, students, teachers, but her face is sharp and unbearable in a way I can’t shake. She isn’t clapping. She’s just watching me, head tilted, eyes unreadable.
Like she always is.
Something in me slips. Control, maybe. Or sanity.
Because suddenly I’m off the stage before anyone can stop me, weaving through people, ignoring the cheers fading behind me. I shouldn’t chase her. I know that. But she turns before reaching the doors, and now I’m on the pavement outside, cool night air cracking open my chest.
“You didn’t even say hi,” I tell her, breathless.
Nova lifts one shoulder. “You were busy.”
“I watched the whole room,” I say, and hate how desperate it sounds, “but I was only looking at you.”
She smiles faintly. It lands wrong, too careful, too guarded.
The adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet. My hands are still shaking. I step closer without thinking, and she lets me, just long enough for me to wrap my arms around her.
God.
I forgot how much this steadies me. Like the noise inside my head finally drops out. Like the world narrows to something survivable.
“You came,” I murmur into her hair. “That means something, right?”
She doesn’t answer.
I lean back just enough to see her face. “Nova… do you love me?”
It’s not rehearsed. It just falls out of me, raw and awful and too soon.
She shrugs.
And that’s somehow worse than a no.
The doors burst open behind us, the crowd spilling out, laughter and phones and congratulations flooding the space. She steps back, and suddenly the night feels colder than it did seconds ago.
“This—” she gestures between us, “it doesn’t change anything.”
My stomach twists. Green, sharp, ugly. Jealousy. Fear. Me hating myself for needing more than she’s willing to give.
“So why do you keep doing this?” I ask softly. “Why do you keep letting me get pulled back in?”
Nova’s eyes flicker. For a moment, I see something real there — something terrified.
“I don’t know how to let go,” she says.
Neither do I.
She turns away, disappearing into the crowd like she didn’t just steal everything from me again.
I stay there for a second longer, hands still trembling, chest tight, replaying the moment like it might change if I think hard enough.
I’d give anything for her to wrap me in her arms again.
For her to say it means something.
For her to come to me differently.
But instead, I walk back inside.
Back to the stage.
Back to the version of myself everyone claps for.
It doesn’t feel like a victory, the show was no longer mine.
She stole it.