Instead of fading as science explains it should, the cheers only get louder.
“Stay here,” he whispers — or shouts — straight into my ear, the guitar I gave him last week for his birthday slung across his shoulders. His soft lips brush my cheek when I nod, then he dashes to his spot on the unlit stage to greet his thousand other girls.
I watch him plug in the guitar, fumble with the shirt that snuggles his lean body, tousle his brown hair. It’s silly for a world-famous artist, but he’s nervous.
3, 2, 1, I hear someone from behind me say into a microphone, and all at once, the lights go on, the screams heighten to an unimaginable volume, and his fingers strum the steel strings.
He clears his throat, asking for silence which is granted to him after a few minutes. “First, I’d like to tell you all that I love you —“ sweet talker, I think, sneering, “— but my heart belongs to only one girl.”
A yelp gets stuck in my throat on its way out.
What is he thinking? Does he want their fame... him... me extinct?
All around me, the staff goes silent. But if voices could kill, I would’ve dropped dead from the fans’ wails.
“Yes, yes, I know, but please understand that I’ll never be sorry for loving her,” he says his silly attempt at appeasing the raging females.
Oh what the heck. He loves me. I love him. Everyone else can suck it up.
He turns to face me, hand outstretched, beckoning me to come to him. I take a step, two, three, and finally break into a run.
When my palm is a finger’s breadth from his, my dreaded alarm rings me back to reality.