I hear him stir in the next room. The soft rustle of sheets. A gentle snore that isn’t mine. For a moment, the weight in my chest lifts. I think of his hand on the small of my back during the after-party, a silent anchor. He doesn’t love the crown; he loves the ache underneath it.
And that Angie is enough.
Everyone thinks they know what silence sounds like in my head. They think it’s a pop song. A catchy chorus about confidence or heartbreak. But the real silence is louder. It’s the sound of a crowd cheering for a version of me that stops existing the moment the stage lights die.