The Brave

I had a script for this.

I had a dozen pre-planned answers for interviews, for fans, for the label executives. *It’s a metaphor for the industry.* *It’s about a fictional character.* *It’s about my ex from college.*

I looked at Dae. The moonlight washed him in silver, stripping away the gold of the stage lights. He looked young. He looked waiting.

I was the ghostwriter. My job was to be invisible. My job was to make him shine. If I told the truth, I broke the contract. Not the paper one with the record label, but the unspoken one between us. The one that said I could be his friend, his confidant, his shadow, but never his reality.

But the silence in the room was demanding a payment.

I looked at his hands, resting on his knees. The rings on his fingers caught the light.

"You know who," I whispered.

It was the terrifying, reckless truth. It was the bravest thing I had ever done, braver than walking into a label meeting, braver than quitting my day job.

Dae went perfectly still.

He didn't pull away. He didn't laugh. He didn't give me the pitying look of a star letting down a fan.

He exhaled, a long, shaky sound. "I hoped," he said, his voice barely audible. "But I was terrified I was wrong."

"Dae—"

"I forgot the lyrics," Dae interrupted, "because I looked at the side of the stage. I saw you standing by the monitor engineer. And I realized I was singing a love letter to myself, written by the only person who actually knows me."

The air in the room seemed to vanish. My lungs burned.

Dae moved. He shifted his weight, closing the gap between us on the floor. The distance—the professional boundary, the safety net—evaporated.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and touched my face. His fingers were cold from the air conditioning, but his palm was burning hot against my jaw.

"Leo," he said.

He leaned in.

It wasn't a movie kiss. It wasn't the polished, choreographed romance of his music videos. It was clumsy and desperate. We bumped noses. I tasted the expensive champagne he’d been drinking, but mostly, I tasted fear.

Then, he softened. His hand slid into my hair, gripping tight, anchoring himself to me. I made a noise in my throat, a broken sound of relief, and grabbed the lapels of his mesh shirt, pulling him closer.

For a moment, the silence wasn't heavy anymore. It was loud. It roared in my ears, the sound of blood rushing, the sound of the barrier breaking.

He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, like he was trying to inhale the words I hadn't written yet. It was terrifying. It was electric. It was the best song we had never recorded.