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nhlfics · 3 years ago

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𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇.

pairing: sidney crosby x singer-songwriter!reader, harry styles x singer-songwriter!reader (platonic), side harry styles x louis tomlinson (because i couldn't resist)

synopsis: is your fame is much too much for sidney crosby to stomach, even in the name of love? (based on this request)

warnings: swearing, angst, hollywood being awful

word count: 10k lol

author's note: just prepare for pain. thats all. for a more immersive experience, listen to this playlist

main masterlist

“Welcome back everybody! My next guest, and I don’t have any issue admitting this on-air, is one of my all-time favorite musical artists and one of my all-time favorite people. Her latest single, “Message in a Bottle,” has dominated the pop charts for six consecutive weeks, and she recently received two Grammy nominations, including one for Best New Artist. Please give a warm welcome to (your name)!”

Stephen Colbert’s voice fades into the jubilant roar of the live studio audience as one of the Late Show production assistants guides you to the velvet curtain. Your manager gives you a reassuring smile before nudging you through the parted fabric and onto the glossy black stage. The hot lights are bright and blinding, and you’re grateful Stephen meets you halfway to the platform.

The band plays a jazzier, instrumental version of your latest single and instinctively you smile and wave to the adjacent darkened space, knowing there’s at least sixty of your adoring fans eagerly perched in the seats. You give a final wave before lowering yourself onto the cobalt blue couch, carefully smoothing your dress over your thighs. Once you’re settled, you take a sip of water from the mug left for you on the corner of Colbert’s desk, running your thumb over the white printed logo as you drink.

“I have to say,” Stephen segues once the audience quiets alongside the band, elbows resting on the desk as he leans towards you. “There are very few guests who generate a buzz around this studio quite like you do. All day - all week actually, all everyone could talk about around here was your return to our show.”

Your face blooms with gratitude. “That makes my heart so, so happy. Stephen, it’s really good to be back. What has it been? A year?”

“Wow. Has it really been that long?” Stephen asks, brows knitted in contemplation.

“I think so,” you nod. “I’m pretty sure the last time I was here it was the night my debut album was released. I went straight from your show to my release party down the street - which you were invited to, by the way.”

The audience hoots at your cheeky expression. They always loved the banter between Stephen and yourself.

“Okay, I had a feeling you were going to bring that up and I am going to blame it on my wife and her strict bedtime. We’re old. We can’t be partying with the kids past nine o’clock,” he explains, tapping his cue card against the desk with finality. “But, look how far we’ve come! From your debut album to your first Grammy.”

“I haven’t won anything. I’m just nominated,” you say, smiling bashfully into your lap. “And I’m honestly just honored to even be nominated alongside such talented people.”

“Yet,” Stephen winks. “You haven’t won, yet.”

“Stephen! Don’t jinx me,” you burst.

“Fine, fine. Grammy nominee. Congratulations, by the way. Your first time attending and you’ve been recognized twice - once for best Best New Artist and once for Best Pop Solo Performance. That’s got to feel amazing, right?”

You sigh, “Wow, I don’t think it even fully set in until right now when you said it aloud. But, yes. It feels surreal.”

“How did you react when you found out?”

“I know there’s an atrocious video of me somewhere, courtesy of my best friend. And if this is a set up…” you trail off, finger pointed as your eyes dart between the monitors across from the raised platform as a subtle drumroll builds in speed and stamina.

Stephen grins mischievously, “Actually…I’m just messing with you. No embarrassing videos - tonight.”

The audience lets out a collective groan of disappointment as the music wanes.

“That was just cruel,” you shake your head, hand pressed against your beating heart in relief as the host and his audience delight in your near misery.

“I’m sorry! You’re just so fun to tease, I couldn't resist,” he smiles. You playfully roll your eyes. “Now, I have to ask. There’s been a lot of back and forth over who this song is about...I don’t know, maybe a certain web-slinging superhero, or perhaps a certain British pop sensation?”

The audience descends into a fit of hoots and hollers, heating the back of your neck. You take a long sip from the mug to buy yourself some time, a moment to settle the butterflies fluttering inside your stomach, before answering the very targeted question in a way that was both on brand for the flirty image created by your team and felt authentic to you as a person.

“Part of being a good songwriter is being a convincing storyteller. It’s my job to sell a feeling or an idea. Or a romance,” you turn to the audience and wink before turning back to Stephen to finish your answer. “Every time there’s speculation over my inspiration for a song or even an entire album, it’s incredibly validating because it means I have done my job.”

Stephen’s face folds in mock-disappointment. “If you were less eloquent, I would be more mad about that non-answer answer.”

You chuckle, smiling and shrugging as a mixture of soundboard and live audience laughter envelopes the studio.

“If you won’t tell us who “Message in a Bottle” is about, maybe you can tell us something else?” You nod with a compliant shrug, and he continues. “You’re a big fan of Twitter, always putting out lyrics and talking to your fans, so I’m sure you’ve already seen this theory bouncing around. But can you confirm or deny the following: “Message in a Bottle” is a continuation of “Enchanted,” the single you released a few months before.”

“All of my projects are connected in some way or another, Stephen, but I can confirm that there is indeed a direct correlation between “Enchanted” and “Message in a Bottle,”’ you smile through the small bit of truth your team approved.

“You heard it here first, folks. The same lucky person who inspired our favorite musical meet-cute also inspired our new anthem for pining!” Stephen announces and the crowd erupts in celebration.

The remainder of your time on stage is spent bickering over your mutual favorite movie series, reiterating a pre-approved personal anecdote Stephen pretended was brand new, and discussing your recent cameo on HBO’s Euphoria, which had been foreshadowed during premiere of the first episode when Labrinth sampled your vocals on the soundtrack, but only came to fruition after you visited your close friend Zendaya on set and hit it off with the creator. Stephen congratulates you once more on your nominations before reminding the audience, both in-studio and watching from home, to look out for your upcoming album.

“What happened to mentioning Harry like we planned?” your publicist, Janet, asks the moment you’re tucked safely behind the curtain again.

She barely glances up from her cellphone, and you’re thankful for her screen addiction because you wouldn’t have been able to share a conspiratorial eye roll with your manager had she been staring directly at you.

You smile at the production assistant, the same one from before, who hands you a bottle of water. Cracking it open, you allow your team to lead you back down the hallway and into to the dressing room you’d been assigned to for the night, taking a sip and shutting the door before answering. “Didn’t feel organic.”

“Jesus,” Janet scoffs as she tosses herself onto the black velvet couch. “Honey, don’t be ridiculous. Is anything in this industry organic? Whatever, no going back now. At least you didn’t put your foot in your mouth. We’ll just have to front load the press with candids in the next few weeks before we drop “Run.” Speaking of, Lorelei confirmed Harry will be in town for your birthday and his team secured tickets for the LA Knights game you just had to go to. I still don’t understand why you insisted on doing that, by the way. My assistant had a perfectly good table at Dan Tana’s.”

“Kings.”

“What?” Her voice is as pointed as her thin brow as she glares over the screen of her phone.

“You said LA Knights. Los Angeles’s hockey team is the Kings, not the Knights. That’s Las Vegas,” you explain, leaning your back against the wall and fiddling with the white plastic cap of the half-empty water bottle.

The heels your stylist put you in were uncomfortable, to put it nicely. So much so that you were fairly certain just the short distances you walked in them tonight were enough for permanent blisters.

Sam, your makeup artist lets out a heavy sigh from across the room, and you instantly regret provoking Janet.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Janet’s gaze returns to her phone and her red nails click and clack obnoxiously over the screen. “Now, I know you are supposed to have the night off to do God knows what in the city by yourself, but Gigi Hadid’s people just sent over an invitation for cocktail party she’s hosting on behalf of Tommy Hilfiger at Bemelmans. It’s super exclusive and the perfect opportunity to ask her to connect you with Taylor -”

“No,” you interrupt.

“No?”

“No,” you confirm, arms crossed defensively across your chest. “You said I could have the night to myself. You agreed weeks ago and you can’t just go back on that because some brand wants me there. I’m not going to a networking event to kiss people’s asses and beg for favors. I’ve earned this. I do everything you ask every other night of my life.”

Her face twists with contempt. “Fine. But you’ll be on the tarmac at 5:45 sharp tomorrow morning, and not a second later. You have that radio interview in Las Vegas and the opening of the new hotel on the strip. Do you understand me?”

You nod. “I understand.”

“God, sometimes I feel like I’m the only one in this room who actually cares about the longevity of the brand,” Janet bites under her breath, but still loud enough for you all to hear.

“She’s an adult, Janet. She doesn’t need a babysitter and can make her own decisions,” your agent, Josh, says from across the room.

Janet’s eyes narrow on him, “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one in charge of managing her image when she insist on galavanting around like a child.”

“And that’s rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Janet snaps, tossing her phone against the couch.

The emotionally-charged voices of your publicist and live agent ricocheting off the walls swiftly becomes white noise. They can hardly go ten minutes without jumping down one another’s throats. Except for when they find other ways to occupy their mouths.

Sam finishes tucking her brushes and products into her travel bag and gives you a light squeeze as she steps out into the crowded hallway. Your hairstylist and stylist follow suit not long after, both letting you know they’d meet you at the airport the following morning to head back to the west coast. Soon, your manager is the only buffer between you and the enemies to lovers plot unfolding at your expense.

Thankfully, your phone buzzes as Josh stands from his chair and starts migrating towards the couch.

S: 5 out. Alleyway.

You smile and type out a response. It sends and you tuck your phone back into your pocket. When you look up, your manager is already studying you and frowning.

“I’ll be back in less than six hours. You won’t even notice I’m gone,” you smile at her as your grab your coat off the back of the makeup chair and tug it on. She still looks worried, but you still loop your thick, knit scarf around your neck. “I promise.”

She doesn’t say a word as you open the door and walk into the hallway. You make it all the way to side door before you hear the click of her heels against the unforgiving floor. You keep walking, the excitement buzzing under your skin dulling your guilt and anxiety.

Delia, your manager, gently grabs your elbow before you can push open the exit door and lowers her voice to a barely-there whisper, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“No promises,” you cheekily reply, quickly pecking her cheek before shoving out into the cold New York City air.

A black sedan is waiting with its hazards on. The bright orangey-yellow beams cut through the alleyway, like a beacon lighting your way through a darkened tunnel. Delicious relief thrums through your veins as the passenger door is thrown open and the smell of woodsy cologne wafts into your nose.

“There’s my girl,” A throaty voice says through a smile when the door closes behind you.

His warm nose brushes against yours, making you shiver. He chuckles and cups your cheek in his palm, stroking over your cheek with his thumb as his deep brown eyes stare down into yours for what feels like seconds and years all at the same time.

“Hi,” you whisper against his lips.

“Hi,” he whispers back.

It’s funny how just spending one minute with the right person can erase all the bullshit that preceded it.

“You look beautiful, darling.”

“Thanks, Sid,” you smile but it quickly fades as commotion builds on the street and a few phantom flashes blink in your peripheral. “I hate to ruin a sweet moment, but if we don’t leave now…”

“I know, I know. The vultures and their cameras.”

There’s a tired agitation to his voice as he turns to take the car out of park, keeping you from reading his expression. You don’t have to see it to know what it looks like, though. His jaw is set and tight, nostrils flared from sharp exhales, and brows so downturned they impede on his eyes.

He’s frustrated, but so are you. But it’s not fair for him to be upset with you. He’s the reason he’s picking you up in an alley, instead of walking out the front doors of the Ed Sullivan theater with you hand in hand. If he’d let you, you would have reasoned with your team. Sidney never even gave you the opportunity.

The drive is silent, but even if he’s annoyed with you, he still takes W 59th St because he knows you like to see Central Park when you’re in the city, even if it’s just through a car window.

One of the men from your security team is waiting with a hotel concierge when Sidney pulls the car to a stop on the loading dock of the The Plaza.

“Good evening, Miss,” Jamie greets you as he opens the passenger side door for you to step out.

You sigh but a smile still tickles at your lips. “How many times to have to tell you to call my by my first name, Jamie?”

“My apologies,” he returns the grin before playfully tacking on a “Miss.”

The first time you met Sidney, you told him your dream was to stay at the Eloise suite at The Plaza Hotel. You’d only just met a few hours prior, between when you sang the National Anthem and participated in the ceremonial pick drop, so you didn’t know why you were telling a perfect stranger something so silly yet intimate. But you’d come to learn that Sidney just had a way about him that made you want to blurt out all your secrets.

After a 4-3 victory over the Rangers, Madison Square unceremoniously emptied. Before you could be whisked away by your security team, a member of the Penguins staff tracked you down in your suite to hand-deliver a note from their captain. Inside was the address of The Plaza (as though you didn’t already have it memorized) and a bright pink room key.

Over room service and champagne and surrounded by pink goodness, you told him how much Eloise at Christmastime meant to you, and he listened like it was the most interesting story he’d ever heard and would ever hear. After you finished, slightly embarrassed and thoroughly delirious off alcohol and sugar, you buried your head into one of the obnoxiously floral pillows propped against the pink, sparkly headboard. You’d felt his weight shifting on the bed and feared the worst, anxiously peering up, only to find him setting up the record player across the room.

Etta James’ sultry voice crackled through the room and all he needed to do was hold out his hand. You danced together, soft and slow, until the sun rose. Until you both had to go. You to LA for a press junket, and him back to Pittsburgh for a double header the following weekend.

But from that night forward, Sidney booked the Eloise suite whenever reality permitted. Just to eat sweets and slow dance on the zebra print carpet under the safety of the night.

The Plaza learned to respect your privacy and was willing to do just about anything to protect it. They sent their senior-most concierge to meet with your head of security, who then jointly escort you two to the suite in a private elevator and through hallways temporarily blocked off from the public, a procedure they’d repeat when you left. Separately.

Everything in the suite is pink and white. Absolutely everything, and it’s absolutely magical. Sidney will never admit how much he likes it. Frills and all.

“I’ll be back to escort you to Teterboro at 5,” Jamie says to you before excusing himself into the hallway.

He promises his team keeps a respectful distance, but you prefer to not think about them four men stationed outside the door. At The Plaza, it’s just you and Sidney. Normal and alone.

When the door clicks shut, Sidney fastens the deadbolt and wanders over to the Edwardian tea table overflowing with fresh flowers and complimentary treats.

The reservation includes themed tea at The Palm Court, but you’ve never been. Judging by extra box of chocolate truffles and second bottle of Veuve, someone at The Plaza knows you never will.

“Etta or Nat tonight?”

Your voice is small and hesitant, still unsure of how to move past the awkwardness your fame inevitably caused even after all this time.

He doesn’t answer. Not at first, and not with words. His dark eyes hold yours as he places a few chocolate covered strawberries and two truffles onto a delicate cream plate with gold-dusted edges and pours a glass of champagne. He crosses the room with easy strides and when he places them into your hands, your fingers brush with a softness that tells you all is forgiven.

He sheds his coat and you watch the muscles lining his back ripple beneath the fitted t-shirt. He thumbs through the records stored next to the player, pausing to study a sleeve you’re too far away to discern. Content, he settles it into place and drops the needle.

When Kitty Kallen’s sweet voice joins the dynamic orchestra a minute or so into the track, Sidney moves everything to the side and draws you against his chest in the center of the room.

“I wish I could handle this better,” he murmurs into your neck as “It’s Been A Long, Long Time” turns into “A Sinner Kissed An Angel.”

A single tear drops from your outer corner, disappearing into the dark fabric of his shirt. Though you know deep down agree with him, you would never say it aloud. “I don’t want you do anything but be yourself.”

“One day things will be different. I promise.”

You’d seen and experienced enough to stop yourself from clinging to the pretty words of empty promises, but fuck, did you want to. Especially when they were coming from a handsome mouth that you loved so dearly.

“Just keep dancing.” It comes out a whimper, though you don’t mean for it to. “Please.”

Jamie almost breaks down the bright pink door a few hours later. Sometime between the silent tears and the dancing and the sips of champagne, you fell asleep against Sidney’s chest on top of the pink floral duvet. He’s already awake beneath you and tracing light circles on your back and your arms.

“Stay,” he whispers when you open your eyes.

Still groggy, you almost agree. Your phone rings and the banging persists, and you think better of it.

“If I don’t leave now, Janet will have my head,” you say quietly as shift away from him.

He catches your arm and draws you back into his. “One day, we won’t have to do this. One day, we’ll wake up together and not have to rush off, not knowing when we’ll see each other next. Do you know what keeps me going?”

“What?” you ask, your voice catching in your throat halfway through.

“Knowing I end up with you.”

It’s sweet. You know it’s meant to be sweet, and you know it is. But how sweet can inaction be?

“When?”

“What?” Sidney asks, propping himself up onto his elbow.

“When will we end up together?”

He lets out a long sigh. The banging continues. He doesn’t have an answer because he doesn’t know. Or he does, and he knows he’s full of shit.

Rolling your eyes, you quickly collect your belongings off the floor and the chair, not bothering to put any of it on. You slip on your shoes, take one last sip from your discarded flute and undo the deadbolt.

“You’re not even going to give me a chance to answer?” Sidney huffs, still lazily lounging atop the bed.

You pause, facing the fuchsia door. “Your silence said enough.”

Jamie doesn’t pry and that’s probably the best thing about him. He just lets you sulk in taut silence on the thirty minute drive to New Jersey.

You board the plane without speaking to anyone, sunglasses shielding your puffy eyes from a nosy audience. The thick fur hood of your coat pulled over your head does a wonderful job of discouraging conversation for the first hour of the flight, at which time you allowed yourself to be coaxed into a quiet game of chess with Sam. She threw the first match, no doubt sensing you could use the win, but she slowly worked into her usual prowess as you emerged from your sullen shell.

“What the fuck is this?” Janet abruptly slams her iPad down onto the table, sending free-standing black and white chess pieces scattering across the floor of the jet.

When you don’t reach for it, instead moving your knight to E4, she shoves the device into the board. Annoyed, your eyes snap from her red, pinched face down to the bright screen slanted halfway into your lap. Anything to make her go away.

“No, no, no, no,” you chant, eyes glazing over with tears. The blurry paparazzi photo taken outside the Ed Sullivan theatre plastered on the cover of the trashy, but undoubtedly popular, gossip magazine becomes unrecognizable as they cascade down your cheeks.

“MAYBE SHE’S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE ELSE…

When the Brit’s away, the American will play! More exclusive photos and a breakdown of everything you need to know about the “Enchanted” singer’s mystery man on page 7!”

Over your shoulder, Josh and Delia gasp before fuzzy spots cloud your vision as the world goes dark.

TWO MONTHS LATER.

You’re grateful Harry insisted on playing the guitar tonight. With his hands occupied, Janet and Lorelei couldn’t make him touch you during the performance. Instead, he’s standing a foot away, safely off to your right.

The stage is nearly empty, devoid of background dancers and supporting vocalists. You’d forgone a full band, and what musicians you asked to accompany you during your debut Grammy performance were obscured by a light fog and prop trees, big and dark and green. It was simple - lonely. But to onlookers, it was the kind of stripped down intimacy celebrities aspired for. A way of signaling to their audience that this kind of high-profile love was in some way attainable.

Even in the thin fabric of the gown your stylist pulled, you feel as though you’re melting under the heavy lighting and insurmountable pressure.

You wanted to remember this moment for the rest of your life, but you doubted you could. Disappointment clouded the night, spurning a melancholic burn in the pit of your stomach. The one person you wanted there, more than anyone else in the entire world, wasn’t. It was too much of a risk. Too many people and too many cameras. Someone would talk if they saw you with him instead of Harry.

It was too soon after the faux reconciliation to take any chances - especially “unnecessary” ones, according to your publicist. After all, she was responsible for the now-infamous public groveling in London followed by an outwardly spontaneous and romantic getaway to Paris for the weekend. Your fans dubbed it the "London Rekindling," claiming it was proof love wasn't dead. It was neither spontaneous nor romantic, and besides a few scheduled pap walks and tourist excursions, you hardly saw Harry. You weren’t the only one hiding a lover in the shadows.

Janet allowed you to attend the Kings game, in which they played the visiting Penguins, a few weeks later but she barred you from “meeting” either team after. She wouldn’t give reporters the opportunity to even speculate about you flaunting one boyfriend in front of the other.

Sidney was less than pleased you were there, and he made sure you knew. He missed most shots and racked up more penalty minutes in a single game than he’d ever before. Each time they showed his pinched expression on the Jumbotron, it felt like he was glaring directly at you, and he was. He was punishing you for intruding on his domain with your drama on someone else’s the arm.

After the final buzzer sounded, you managed to sneak away from your friends and your handlers to track Sidney down, not caring if the staff saw you.

“You’re being incredibly reckless right now,” He’d said to you after you pinned him against a wall, tucked away from prying eyes, and kissed him like your life depended on it.

“Don’t care,” you hummed, lips ghosting over the thin line of skin left exposed above his white dress shirt. “I needed to see you and make you forgive me.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m never mad at you, darling. Only the situation.”

The situation that was entirely self-inflicted. You could be together if you wanted it badly enough, but you both were to selfish to sacrifice what mattered most to you. Sidney wanted peace, and your career could never allow him that. You wanted to love him in public, but he could never subject himself to the media. So you settled for clandestine meetings and longing stares. But for how long could that be enough?

On arguable the most significant night of your career, he wasn’t there. You were in Las Vegas, pretending to be in love with someone you weren’t in front of millions, and he was spending his off day holed up in some hotel suite waiting for you to come back. Guilt twists in your gut with every pleading verse and chorus.

“There’s been this whole in my heart,” Harry leads the bridge, eyes deliberately catching yours over the microphone as his fingers work over the strings of his acoustic guitar.

“This thing was a shot in the dark,” you answer, winking at him just like you choreographed, feeling more like an amusement park animatronic than a woman in love.

“Say you’ll never let them tear us apart.”

They already had but you were too stubborn to see it.

“And I’ll hold on to you while we run,” you sing, eyes fluttering closed as green eyes before you fade to brown in the privacy of your own mind.

The tears raining down your cheeks when Stevie Nicks presents you with the Grammy award for Best New Artist later that evening are mostly joyful, but you can’t help yourself from letting a few drops of disappointment slip through. He should be here with you.

The front woman for one of the best musical groups of all time is just as warm and genuine as you hoped she would be and your speech is beautiful. When you thank an unnamed special individual in your life, you don’t look for green eyes in the front row like Janet told you to. You stare directly into the main camera and hope brown ones are looking back.

Winning a second time feels like a cruel joke. A handheld camera is fixed on your face when Billie Eilish and Finneas announce your performance on the lead single of your debut album and Harry plants a congratulatory kiss on your cheek, strategically only partially in frame. He walks with you over to the stage, carefully helping you navigate the stairs, before stepping back down to let you have a moment that the media can’t make about him.

“Wow, um, I never thought I would win one of these,” you hold the gilded gramophone up in shaking hands. “And now I’m walking away from tonight with two. This is absolutely inane. It is an incredible honor to just be in the same room as you all, and I have looked up you as creators, and more importantly as human beings, for as long as I can remember. I cannot thank you enough for welcoming me into this world with open arms and hearts, and for loving and trusting me enough to do what makes me the happiest, which is to create music that resonates with people. I want to thank my fans for meeting me wherever I’m at with empathy and enthusiasm. You are my absolute favorite part of this all and I could not do it without you. Lastly, I want to thank the Recording Academy for giving me a night I will never, ever forget.”

An instrumental version of your track floats from the seated orchestra as you’re ushered away from the cameras and backstage. As soon as the light leaves your face, a thundering of emotions bubble to the surface and you collapse against Delia, who was waiting in the wings to receive you.

“Let it out, honey. It’s okay,” she rubs your back as she hurries you through the halls and into a private back room.

Familiar faces pop up along the way and you hope they assume your tears are just those of an industry newcomer overwhelmed with gratitude.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you croak when the door slams shut. It’s just the two of you and your hunk of metal. The words fall out of you like they never belonged there in the first place. “It’s too much and I thought I could pretend, but I can’t and I need to be done. Delia, I need to be done. You have to tell Janet that I’m done.”

“Shhh, calm down. I know you’re hurting inside, but we need to get you calm before you’re makeup is ruined. They won’t let Sam back here during the show and we still need to get you out of here.”

Lightly she swipes the pads of her thumbs over your damp cheeks, collecting the tears. You feel like you’re cracking, bursting at the seams with longing for someone who can’t play the role you want them to.

“I want to see him,” you say, voice raspy with despair, as she blots your face with a thin tissue.

“I know you do,” she says woefully.

You whimper, “Please, Delia. I won’t ask for anything ever again. I will never complain. I’ll smile for the cameras and hold Harry’s hand, and I’ll convince the world we’re in love. Just please. One night. Tonight. Please, just let me be with him tonight.”

“I wish that I could. I want that more than anything, but I can’t. You’re contractually obligated to attend the after party, I’m sorry. After, we’ll get him into your hotel. I promise, honey.”

Her words only make you sob harder. “It’ll be too late. He’ll be gone by then.”

Sidney only had twenty four hours to spare in his tight schedule, and you’d wasted what time he hadn’t spent on an airplane getting your glam done, taking a million photos for the designer who leant you your gown, creating sound bites on the red carpet, and faking love with another man. By the time you’re released from the party tonight, he’ll be in the air headed back to join his team in Detroit. Your schedules didn’t align again for another month. The relationship is slipping through your fingers and you’re losing it.

“We’ll find a way to make your schedule more flexible, okay? Less contracted time and more independence. You have a few recording sessions lined up in LA for the album, but I think we can talk to Janet about limiting the amount of time you’re in public. You can write from anywhere. Maybe a change in scenery will be inspiring. Tonally, I think being with him could really help solidify the album. And I know it’s hard to believe, but Janet’s not completely unreasonable,” Delia gives you a soft smile and you scoff. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

You laugh a little and she brightens.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and ready to leave, okay? I’ll let the team know you’re keeping the conference short. One of Janet’s minions can feed them a tip about you wanting time to celebrate privately with friends and family.” You knew how the press would interpret that and it makes you nauseous. “Spend a few hours at the party. Make the rounds, maybe have a drink or two, and then politely bow out. Something tells me Harry won’t mind calling it early.”

You nod in agreement and allow her to help soak of the remanence of your tears. Delia does her best with the concealer and strawberry chapstick in her clutch before leading you back to your seat in the crowd. Lucky for you, another unfortunate installment of the Selena/Justin/Hailey saga unfolded moments before - something about him changing the lyrics during a performance dedicating to his wife, so the cameras are locked on their seats a few sections over for the remainder of the production.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Harry asks on the way to Encore for the Recording Academy’s after party at XS.

“I guess I just keeping thinking about how I climbed this huge mountain and now I’m looking back at how far I’ve come, and I know I should be over the moon delighted but I can’t help but feel empty inside. Is the price we pay worth it? What’s success if you have no one to share it with?” you murmur solemnly, knowing he’ll understand better than anyone in the world. He nods and you’re eager to shift attention away from yourself. “How’s Louis?“

“Pissed,” he chuckles, emerald green eyes flicking to the floor of the car. “But what’s new?”

You exhale loudly into the room. “I know our situations are in no way comparable - not even in the slightest, but do you ever wonder what would happen if we just loved who we loved openly? Would that really be so terrible, if the world knew?”

“I ask myself that every fucking day, love. Every fucking day.”

EIGHT MONTHS LATER.

Scraping an album halfway through production is monumentally stupid. But sometimes shit happens and you don’t want to put out a record about being desperately in love after the person who inspired every tragically beautiful song shattered your fragile heart on a random Tuesday morning in October.

“Our first guest tonight is a two-time Grammy award-winning musician and one of the most beloved creatives in the world. Her album, AFTERMATH, is out tonight at midnight. She will be making her debut appearance as SNL’s musical guest this weekend, along with host Tom Holland. Please welcome back to the show, the one and only, (your name)!”

Seth Meyers, host of the popular Late Night talk show, steps out from behind his desk as the in-studio band plays a punchy interlude. As you walk out onto the stage, he pulls you into a friendly embrace before helping you up the two stairs leading up to the slate gray couches.

“It is so good to have you back in New York and back on this stage. You're one of our favorites and we're honored to have you on the eve of such a special night," Seth says.

You smile, "Thank you for having me, Seth. It's wonderful to be here. I couldn't imagine celebrating this milestone anywhere else."

"Speaking of said milestone, your second studio album, AFTERMATH," Seth props up the vinyl cover on the desk, proudly displaying it to the in-studio audience and the one who would be watching at home, "...will be released tonight after the show. Could you tell us a little about the record - What was your inspiration? How did we get here?"

"Lots of soul-searching," you reply, a heavy sigh causing your shoulders to sag just a little too far.

Janet would no doubt bitch about how you "ruined the visuals" with your slouching, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. You were talking about music. Your music. You didn't need (or want) to be policed.

"Oh?" Seth says, clearly intrigued. You can't tell how much is genuine and how much is amped up for the sake of the nosy viewership. "And what revelations did said-soul searching yield?"

You'd thought about that a lot in the past few months as you finalized the record. The lessons you'd learned and the person you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with. You couldn't be completely honest and it fucking sucked, but you could do your best with the vague niceties you were allowed.

“Sometimes people come into your life for a reason, even if it’s just for a season,” you start slowly, hands clasped in your lap. “Their time with you may have been short-lived, but they’ll always be woven into the fabric of your story. The good and the bad, the happiness and the hurt. It all leads you down the path that’s meant for you. Yes, it hurts when someone leaves and it’s cathartic to let yourself hate them sometimes, and to even write a vindictive song or two, but I’ve done my best healing when I approach the world from a place of forgiveness. Not for anyone’s benefit but my own. If there’s anything I've learned from losing love it’s that no one can give you closure you need besides yourself.”

“And you can feel that throughout the record,” Seth says earnestly, smiling as he continues to hold the vinyl cover. “You were actually nice enough to send me a copy early and I remember sitting with it blasting - through headphones of course, and feeling all the nostalgia and the pain and the grief, and even hope towards the end there.”

“Thank you, that really means a lot to hear. I am very vulnerable with my work, and I think that’s what allows so many people see themselves and their experiences reflected in my songs, but AFTERMATH feels different. Like I’m baring my soul in a way I never have before. Which is terrifying, by the way,” you laugh a little and the audience quickly joins.

“I do want to talk about a couple of the tracks, if that’s okay with you?” Seth pushes the interview along, tucking the album back under the desk.

“Go for it,” you smile.

“First, I feel like we need to talk about “Enchanted” and “Message in a Bottle,” because when people pick up the album tomorrow they, like myself, are going to be a little confused why two of your most popular songs aren’t on it. Is there a reason behind the decision to cut them, or were they never intended to be on the album from the beginning?”

You knew he'd ask about this. It was the million dollar question. Your team wanted you to say they weren't meant for an album - "silly passion projects," Janet had called them, but that was too much of a lie for you to stomach. They were meant for an album. Just not the one you ended up releasing.

“I wrote those songs during a period of time that is very different from my life now. Authenticity is something I prioritize when it comes to the creative process, so it felt disingenuous to include them on an album that is so drastically different in tone and content. I still love those songs dearly, and I always will, but I personally believe they fit better in my past than in my present.”

“Fair enough. Now, let’s see…what to start with?" he mutters as he scans the track-list taped to the back of a cue card. “How about “favorite crime”? There was an incredible amount of speculation about this one after you teased the track list on Instagram a few weeks ago and I feel like the people deserve some answers.”

"And I am happy to provide them!" you wink towards the crowd before explaining the sanitized story. "'favorite crime" is what happens when you love someone who makes you feel like your love is wrong, or something to hide. It depicts a journey of co-dependency and desperation, and the inability to see the toxicity clearly while you're wrapped up in the stolen moments. You’re settling for less because you’d rather hurt together than be apart. In hindsight, you recognize the fundamental issues with the relationship but you have no idea where you stand in the aftermath. You're hurt, but you survived and you now know it wasn't healthy."

Seth hums, mulling over your words. "Sometimes that's enough, though. Just knowing that you weren't treated fairly in a past relationship is incredibly valuable."

"I agree."

“Next, “breadwinner.” What’s the story there? I absolutely love this song, and dare I say, it might be my favorite on the album,” Seth says.

“Really?” your voice betrays your shock.

He laughs. “Really! It’s catchy and clever, but still has the heart and brutal honesty that you’re known for.”

“Well, thank you! Um, but to answer your question, I feel like we don’t fully understand just how vital it is to have the people closest to you support you unequivocally and openly, without a shred of fear of the repercussions, until you finally find them. You can love someone so deeply and know that they return those feelings, but love is not enough when they - intentionally or not, put you in a position where you’re forced to pause your goals to suit their agenda,” you explain and Seth nods along beside you. “‘breadwinner” is my middle finger to anyone who thinks it’s okay to make someone they claim to love dim their shimmer to make them feel better about themselves."

“And here I was thinking I couldn't possibly love it anymore. Now, we have to talk about “don’t you.” We just have to,” Seth says giddily. “This is your very first collaboration with Jack Antonoff, who also works with your friends Lorde and Taylor Swift, and you just about broke the Internet when you shared a clip with him in the studio on Instagram last week. Can you tell us about that process?"

“Jack is one of the most spectacularly talented people I have ever met in my entire life, and actually he was the one who reached out to me. Through Taylor, funny enough. I sent her a clip of “liability” when it was just a chorus and a short melody, and she accidentally played it for him when they were in a session.”

“How do you "accidentally" do that?” Seth prompts, eagerly leaning forward onto the desk between you.

"You don't," you chuckle. "It was very much on purpose. She knew we would work well together and that was her way of getting us into the same room. Jack loved "liability" but I already had Dan Nigro, who you know works heavily with Olivia Rodrigo, producing it. So, Taylor suggested we collaborate on something else, and that something else turned into what's now "don't you." We ended up sneaking a few of her harmonies into the background. As for the premise of the track, its is fairly simple: begging the subject not to re-open the wounds inflicted in the wake of the separation and relentlessly questioning why they don't seem to hurt the way you do."

"An all-star collaboration and an all-star song." Seth smiles, “And finally, track number one. We kind of worked our way backwards but if you could, can you explain “supercut” - why you chose it as you opener and what it means for the project as a whole?”

“So, for those of you who don’t know, a supercut is a montage of short clips with the same theme, such as a word or a phrase or, in this case, an emotion. At its core, this song is about being confused over the failure of a relationship. Over the past year as I was writing and reflecting, I would find myself only looking back on the good times, trying to ignore the bad ones, and wondering what would have happened had certain moments gone differently. I chose to start AFTERMATH with this track because it felt like the perfect introduction for listeners. A way to put them into the headspace I was in when I was working on it. In relation to the project holistically, it lays the foundation for the emotional purging that eventually occurs throughout the following hour.”

The rest of the interview pertains to inconsequential bullshit. If you had it your way, you'd skip it altogether. You didn't understand how a largely factitious story about your first apartment in Los Angeles added anything to the larger conversation, but your team insists its a good way to build a brand thats personable.

On Saturday night, Tom blows the audience away and sends the internet into a frenzy. His "reboot" of his girlfriend's hit Disney channel show, Shake It Up, had you and the rest of the cast howling with laughter backstage. You knew you'd be seeing gifs and memes of your friend in sequins and a wig for months. During the Weekend Update, he played a crazed version of a fan who cared just a little too much about your recent "split" from Harry. He genuinely brought himself to tears whilst singing an off-key version of "Enchanted" while clutching a framed, very staged paparazzi photo from the London Rekindling.

As your band gets situated on stage during the last act of the show, Michael Che and Colin Jost ask you to sign it - you do, barely able to hold the sharpie because you're laughing so much. It's the first time your stomach has tightened in a pleasant way, and it feels damn good. You walk out onto the darkened platform with a small, but genuine smile curled on your lips.

“Ladies and gentleman, (your name)!” Pete Davidson motions for the camera to move towards the stage behind him.

You run your thumb over your mic, wiggling your fingers as you inhale deeply. You hold the breath for a second, counting like your therapist taught you during your second session a few weeks ago, and then send the air back into the world.

Preforming never made you nervous, but thinking about him always did. One of the downsides of using personal experiences to create your art was having to relive those memories in front of an audience. Janet liked the way it looked - what it added to your stage presence, but you preferred to do your grieving in private. But, sometimes it was therapeutic to take control of the narrative in such a public way, even if all they knew were half-truths.

Behind you, the band starts and the simple set illuminates. Just you and your band, and a year's worth of affection and heartbreak.

Do you really want this?

Be honest, be honest

Do you just wanna call it?

Be honest

Keep lookin' for a sign that

We got this, we're solid

But maybe we're just getting in the way

Most of your relationship happened through a screen. Most of your fighting happened through that same screen.

"Do you think this is a good idea?"

You asked him some variation of this often. In person, over the phone, in emails and in texts. You'd asked him this on almost every continent, while flying over every ocean. Sitting in the sun and curled up under the moon.

"What, darling?" Sidney asked as though he didn't know what you meant, like he didn't already have an answer.

"Do you think we're a good idea? That this - that we're worth all the fuss? Surely you could be with someone more...low maintenance?"

You always hated how it sounded. All insecure and small. Like you weren't sure about you or him, or the relationship. He never asked questions like you did. Didn't need to beg for reassurance, regardless of how many bumps you hit.

"Sweetheart, if I wanted to be with someone else I would be."

It was meant to be comforting but it wasn't. His succinct attempt at reassurance that night fell short. It was becoming a pattern but not so long ago, Sidney used to say all the right things. They were like magic, unraveling you with a confident ease, coaxing you into comfort. It was his enchanting words you fell for first, then his heart and his smile. But, as the months dragged on and things became more serious, you only drifted further apart.

"But -"

"But nothing," his voice was sharp through the phone. "If I tell you that we're okay, you need to trust that. We're good. We're good, until you let the world and your insecurities get in the way."

It stung, cut you so close to the bone you felt you would collapse, but you could see the truth in his words. In the brutal honesty that had replaced sweet nothings. Maybe there was a reason you were the only one that voiced concerns or dug up problems and prodded until they grew too large to ignore. Maybe everything would be okay if you left things alone and stopped creating obstacles to overcome.

"I hear you, but I need you to be honest. Do you just want to call it? Before something happens and we end up hating each other?" you asked, hearing his breathing change on the other end of the line - on the other side of the world. "I really don't want to hate you."

He started to answer but was interrupted by loud banging, probably on his hotel room door. Sidney cursed under his breath. "Look, I have to go. You don't have to hate me. Not now. Not ever. If you still feel like the world is crumbling tomorrow - our relationship alongside it, we'll talk about it then. We're good, okay? Tell me you believe me. I can't hung up the phone and play tonight knowing you'll be upset."

Sidney played better when you were happy, so you told him you believed him. He ended the call and for the rest of the night, you repeated what he said over and over. You hoped that if you said it enough, it would come true.

It didn't.

If we wait for the perfect time

What if it's just

Just a little too late?

Just a little too little?

What if I'm just

A little much, too much for ya?

What if we just

Take a little more space

And little by little

It does what it does

'Til there's nothin' left of us?

The last of the chorus floats of your tongue and you're thrust into one of the last conversations you had with him.

"This is too fucking much. I can't take this anymore. I feel like I'm going insane arguing with you. We go in fucking circles, over and over again, because you just don't care about how your lifestyle effects me."

Sidney's head was between his knees, his hands tugging at the short strands. His neck was damp with perspiration, physical evidence of the anger and frustration he'd let consume him.

You flew nearly twenty hours through multiple timezones to see him between roadies, but all he'd done since you surprised him was go on and on about how terrible it was to love you.

"Are you even listening to me?" Sidney asked when you didn't immediately have a rebuttal.

The desperation in his voice gave you pause. He wanted this to work, was trying to make things work despite how impossible it all felt. He loved you. Had loved you like no one had before. And for months, you'd felt like Sidney was your epic love. The one you were meant to be with. But he was asking too much. You loved him, but did you love him enough to give up the only dream you'd ever had?

"I'm listening. I just don't know what you want from me anymore," you'd said as you sunk into the couch beside him but he didn't look up. "I do everything that I can to make sure we spend as much time as we can together as possible. I follow all the rules, and I keep everything offline and as vague as possible. I fight tirelessly with my team over scheduling and appearances and brand direction. No one knows about us. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Then he paused for a long, long time and the silence was suffocating. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were cold and distant. He'd acted out an entire breakup in his mind, made the decision all on his own, and now he was going to make the aftermath your problem.

"I need space. We both need space," he rushed to add, attempting to make it seem amicable. "I think it would be good for us to put this on pause and really think about what we want. From each other. From a relationship. For our futures."

He was breaking your heart in the most diplomatic way possible.

"I want someone who is all in. Someone that doesn't need me to forfeit my dreams to save our relationship. Someone who's sure about me. Someone who isn't ashamed to be with me."

"Do not put words in my mouth. I have never once said I was ashamed to be with you."

Sidney was always more concerned with how he was being perceived than how he was wrecking others.

"You didn't need to. I could fucking feel it," you seethed.

"This," he jumped to his feet, frantically gesturing with his hands, "is exactly why we need space. I need a break from the..the dramatics."

You didn't stop the sardonic laugh from leaving your mouth, far beyond caring about what he felt or thought or wanted. "Take all the space you need. Indefinitely."

We're searchin' for a reason

Too often, too often

To cut these ties and go our separate ways

If five years down the line

We're talking, just talking

Will I still be the one that got away?

If he ever loved you, how could he move on so quickly? Like none of it even mattered. Like you never mattered.

Thinking about, even so many months later, made your stomach twist and your heart drop in a way you thought you'd never recover from. Peering in on his new relationship through mutual friends and sporadic social media posts made your incompatibility agonizingly obvious.

She could give him the quiet life he always wanted. With her, there were no complicated schedules or late-night rendezvous. They could go to dinner or take a walk without being chased by paps or overzealous fans. She could support his career without unintentionally making a spectacle of it. Her existence wouldn't detract from his accomplishments. Loving her was easy. Loving you was hard.

It'd been too much for Sidney to handle, and that was okay. You would be okay. He wasn't the person for you. He couldn't be. He didn't want to be, and that was okay.

As the music fades away, the studio lights dim and the live audience erupts, you finally find a lull in the relentless ache. It's just long enough to realize you can never be too much for someone who thinks you’re enough.