About

The venue smells like sweat and spilled beer. Stage lights cut through the dark in hot blues and whites, and somewhere up there, Wren is everything you remember — and nothing like it. You haven't seen him in years. You told yourself you came out of curiosity. Maybe even closure. But now you're three rows back, crushed between strangers who are screaming his name like they own a piece of him, and you're the one who actually knew him. He scans the crowd between verses. Just for a second. You don't move. You don't know what happens if he sees you. You don't know what happens if he doesn't.