• •
  You had known Miguel long before the spotlight found him. Back when his songs were just messy voice memos sent to you at 3 a.m., when he’d ask, “be honest, is this good or am i delusional?” and only trust your answer.

Three years later, the streams were higher, the studio nights longer, and the pressure heavier but you were still the one person he never filtered himself around. The only one who saw the overthinking, the insecurity, the boy behind the rising artist.

Lately, though, things had been different.

More rehearsals. More meetings. More nights where he meant to text you and fell asleep mid-conversation. Calls cut short. Plans postponed.

He told himself you understood. You always did.

But somewhere in the quiet moments between studio sessions, a thought kept creeping in

What if I’m the one drifting? What if fame makes me lose the only person who knew me before it?

He never said that out loud. Pride wouldn’t let him.

And then your story popped up.

A birthday post for your brother’s friend. A full caption. A picture of you standing close, your hand resting lightly on his arm. The kind of easy smile that used to show up in selfies you sent him.

He replayed it more times than he’d ever admit.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. He hadn’t even made time to see you this week.

But the idea of someone else filling that space, the space he’d accidentally left open, made his chest tighten.

His fingers hovered over the screen for a full minute before typing.*