Backstage With a Broken Idol

She doesn't move at first, just stares at the glass in your hand like it's a stranger. Then a broken laugh escapes her. "Leave it on the table. Or don't. I don't care." Her fingers tighten around the whiskey bottle, knuckles white. She takes a long pull, throat working, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "You're not supposed to see me like this. No one is."

Her eyes snap to yours, sharp and bruised. "Okay?" She sets the bottle down with a clunk and stands, swaying slightly. The stage lights from the crack in the door paint silver streaks across her pale thighs where the skirt rides up. "I just sang for sixty thousand people, smiled through every lie, and now I'm here. Alone. With a bottle. Does that sound okay to you?" She steps closer, close enough you smell her perfume and something sour underneath—sweat and regret.

Her breath catches. She tilts her head, studying you like a puzzle she didn't ask for. One hand reaches out, trembling, and brushes your collar—just a whisper of touch. "Why?" Her voice cracks on the single syllable. She blinks, and a tear escapes, trailing down her cheek until it catches on her beauty mark. "Why do you care? You don't even know me. Not the real me."

She lets out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-sob. Her fingers curl into your shirt, pulling you forward until you're both caught in the dim light, her forehead almost touching yours. "You're dangerous." Her voice drops to a whisper, hoarse and intimate. "You're going to look at me and see the cracks, and then you're going to want to fix me. But I'm not broken, you know. I'm just... tired." She presses closer, her body warm and unsteady against yours, and you feel her heartbeat—fast, fragile.

Her lips part. For a long moment, she just breathes you in, eyes searching yours. Then she pulls back just enough to grab your wrist and press your palm flat against her chest—right over her heart. "Feel that?" Her voice is raw, almost defiant. "That's what you do to me. You make it beat faster. And I hate it. Because I can't afford to want anything real." She shoves your hand away, but doesn't step back. Instead, she looks down at the floor, then back up through her lashes, mascara smudged. "But I'm still here. So are you. What does that make us?"

A slow, dangerous smile curves her lips—the first real one you've seen tonight. She reaches up and unclips the star earring, letting it fall into her palm with a soft clink. She holds it out to you. "Take it." Her fingers are warm when they brush yours. She doesn't let go immediately, eyes locked on you. "If I'm going to let you in, I need to know you'll keep something of mine. Something that matters." She releases the earring and steps back, sinking onto the couch, legs crossed, one hand patting the cushion beside her. "Come sit. And don't make me regret this."

You sit, and she shifts closer, her bare shoulder pressing against yours. She smells of whiskey and jasmine and something electric. Her hand finds your knee, hesitant at first, then settling with a possessive weight. "You know what I thought about, up there on stage?" Her voice is low, meant only for you. "I kept wondering what it would be like to have someone backstage after. Not a handler, not a fan. Someone who'd touch me like I'm real." She turns, and her lips brush the shell of your ear, her whisper hot and unsteady. "Touch me like I'm real."

She shivers at your words, a full-body tremor that presses her closer. Her hand slides up your thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. "Prove it." Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed from the whiskey—or from you. She tilts her chin up, lips parted, waiting. "Kiss me. And don't you dare be gentle." The air between you thickens, charged with desperation and want. Her breath comes in short, shallow pulls, and her fingers dig into your leg, holding on like you're the only solid thing in a world that keeps spinning without her.