After the performance, the applause echoed in Rhea's ears like static — meaningless, hollow, too far away to touch her. She returned to her dressing room alone, peeled off the designer dress like a layer of skin, and sat in front of the mirror with a towel draped over her shoulders. Her makeup was flawless. Her eyes weren't.
The door creaked open.
"I figured you'd be here," said a voice that stopped her cold.
Rhea turned. Micah stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes guarded. He looked the same — worn flannel shirt, jeans, boots scuffed from years of carrying equipment through alleys and basements. But something in his expression had changed. Less warmth. More distance.
"Micah?" she said, stunned. "You came."
"Yeah," he said slowly. "I saw the show. You were… impressive."
The pause before impressive stung more than it should have. She stood awkwardly, clutching the towel tighter. "I tried calling. Texting."
"I know," he replied. "I needed space."
"Space?" she echoed. "From me?"
"No," he said. "From all of this."
He gestured vaguely to the room — the lights, the flowers, the champagne bottles she didn't open, the gift bags from brands she'd never heard of. "You disappeared, Rhea. One day we were making music in my garage, and the next, you were on a billboard in Times Square. You didn't even say goodbye."
"I didn't mean to leave anyone behind," she whispered.
"But you did." His words were quiet but firm. "And you changed."
That word — changed — was the sharpest of all. She'd heard it in interviews, in comment sections, in the disappointed tone of old friends. But from Micah, it felt like a verdict.
"I didn't ask for this," she said, her voice cracking. "It just… happened. One video, and suddenly I was everything they wanted me to be. And every time I tried to say no, they reminded me how replaceable I am."
Micah stepped closer. "You're not replaceable to me. But you are unreachable."
The silence between them grew heavy.
"I miss you," she said.
"I miss the real you," he replied. "Not the version on the magazine covers. Not the girl in the leather corset singing for people who don't know her name. The one who used to write songs about the moon and the feeling of being invisible."
Rhea swallowed hard. That girl felt a million miles away.
"Maybe," she said, "I don't know who I am anymore."
Micah looked at her for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, "Then maybe it's time to remember."
He walked over to the corner of the room, picked up her old guitar — still in its battered case — and handed it to her.
"You want to know who you are? Start here."
And then he was gone, leaving her alone with the weight of everything she'd built — and everything she might have broken.