I'm standing outside Marcus Kane's dressing room with a velvet box in my trembling hands, and I can hear him laughing about how pathetic I am. "She actually believed you'd wait for her?" That's Victoria's voice—his manager, his girlfriend, his everything I'm not. "God, Marcus. Four years of leading her on?" My heart stops. The box—containing the custom guitar pick I'd commissioned months ago, engraved with the coordinates of where we first met—suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. "What was I supposed to do?" Marcus's voice carries through the door, and it's so casual, so unbothered. "She cornered me on her eighteenth birthday, crying about being in love with me since she was fourteen. I couldn't just reject her right there. She's Ethan's little sister." Four years ago. My eighteenth birthday. The night that changed everything. I'd waited until after the show, gathered every ounce of courage, and found him alone by the tour bus. The words had tumbled out in a rush—how I'd loved him since I was fourteen, how I knew the age gap seemed big now but it wouldn't matter once I was older, how I'd wait as long as he needed. He'd looked at me with those dark eyes that had haunted my dreams for years. Touched my cheek so gently. "Maya," he'd said, "you're eighteen. You haven't lived yet. Go to college. Experience life. Date other people. If you still feel this way when you're twenty-two, we'll talk. Really talk. I promise." I'd clung to that promise like a lifeline through four years of university. Turned down dates. Kept my heart locked away. Counted down the days until I turned twenty-two. Today. "So what's the plan?" Victoria asks. "She's definitely coming tonight. Ethan mentioned she flew back from Seattle just for this show." "We announce our engagement," Marcus says. "And the pregnancy. That should finally get the message through her thick skull." My vision blurs. The pregnancy part is new information, sharp as a knife between my ribs. "You're sure about the fake pregnancy?" Victoria sounds skeptical. "That's a lot of commitment to a lie." "It's not like we have to maintain it forever. We'll 'miscarry' in a few weeks. But it'll be enough to make her give up. I've been trying to let her down easy for four years, Vic. She doesn't take hints." Hints. He thinks his promise—the promise I've built my entire adult life around—was a hint. "Poor thing," Victoria says, but she's laughing. "She really thought the Marcus Kane was going to wait for her? A college kid?" "She's not entirely delusional. She's beautiful now. Grew into those features. But Jesus, she's been obsessed since she was a kid. It's creepy." The hallway tilts. I press my hand against the wall to steady myself. "Her brother doesn't know?" Victoria asks. "Ethan? No way. He'd kill me if he knew she's been pining all this time. As far as he knows, I was just being nice to his kid sister four years ago. Told her to focus on school or something generic like that." "Well, tonight should solve everything," Victoria says. "We go on stage after the encore, you get down on one knee, I cry, we announce the baby. She'll be devastated, but she'll finally move on." "Finally," Marcus agrees. "I'm tired of walking on eggshells every time she's around." I should leave. I should run. Instead, I stand frozen as they continue discussing the elaborate performance they've planned for tonight. The timing. The words. How Victoria will cry just enough to seem genuine but not enough to ruin her makeup. They've choreographed my heartbreak like it's just another show. The door handle starts to turn. Panic jolts through me and I stumble backward, clutching the velvet box to my chest. I make it around the corner just as the door opens. "—going to check the lighting setup," Victoria is saying. "See you in twenty." I press myself against the wall, hardly breathing, as her heels click past. She doesn't see me. Why would she? I'm nobody. Just Marcus Kane's bandmate's pathetic little sister who never learned when to give up. When her footsteps fade, I look down at the box in my hands. Inside is a custom guitar pick made from meteorite—Marcus once mentioned in an interview that he'd always wanted one but could never justify the expense. I'd saved for months. Had it engraved with 40.7128° N, 74.0060° W—the coordinates of the small venue in New York where I first saw him perform, where fourteen-year-old me fell completely, stupidly in love. I'd imagined giving it to him tonight. Imagined him understanding what it meant—that I remembered everything, that I'd waited like he asked, that I was ready for our "real talk." God, I'm such an idiot. My phone buzzes. A text from Ethan: *Where are you? Show starts in 30. Saved you a spot side stage.* Side stage. Where Marcus would see me. Where I'd watch him perform, then watch him propose to Victoria, then watch my entire world end in front of an audience of thousands. I can't do it. I won't do it. I turn and walk toward the exit, my heels echoing in the empty hallway. Each step feels like waking up from a four-year dream. No—a four-year lie.