The Echo

* BANG. BANG. BANG.*

The pounding on the door shattered the world.

We sprang apart as if we’d been electrocuted. Dae scrambled back, hitting his elbow against the glass. I nearly knocked over the water glass.

"Dae! You in there?"

It was Marcus, the tour manager. His voice was muffled by the soundproofing, but the urgency cut through. "The CEO is here. He wants a toast. Open up."

The reality crashed back in. The tour. The cameras. The millions of eyes watching his every move. The image that had to be maintained at the cost of everything real.

Dae stood up. He was breathing hard, his lips swollen and red. He looked at me, panic warring with something softer in his eyes.

He ran a hand through his hair, fixing the perfect disarray. He smoothed his shirt. He put the mask back on—the jaw set, the chin lifted, the idol returning to his pedestal.

I sat on the floor, feeling cold. The silence was back, but now it felt empty.

Dae walked to the door. He put his hand on the latch, then stopped.

He didn't open it immediately. He looked back at me.

I was still sitting in the shadows, where I belonged. Where I was safe.

Dae touched his lips with his fingertips, tracing the ghost of the kiss. He looked at me with an intensity that burned.

"Write me another one," he said, his voice rough.

"Another ballad?" I asked, my voice weak.

Dae shook his head. He smiled, and it wasn't the stage smile. It was small, private, and terrifyingly hopeful.

"No," he said. "A love song. A real one. For us."

He turned the latch.

The door opened, and the noise of the party rushed in like a tidal wave—bass, laughter, and the screaming demands of the world. Dae stepped out into the light, and the door swung shut, leaving me alone in the quiet, holding my breath, waiting for the first line to come.