Cords

Chapter 2

About half an hour later, we arrived at the venue. I was relieved that the traffic wasn't too heavy because I couldn't bear the thought of sitting in chaos for another minute. As we all shuffled out of the vehicle and made our way inside, the walls were adorned with photographs of numerous singers who had performed there in the past.

I've always had a peculiar fascination with photography, even squeezing it into my scarce free time. As we opened the large double doors leading to the backstage area, a wave of discomfort washed over me. Being back there reminded me just how much I despise crowds. The bustling technical crew, frantically piecing together last-minute details, only heightened my unease. I quickened my pace, attempting to navigate through the throng of people. It's worth noting, I probably haven't mentioned it before, but I struggle with claustrophobia, and the overwhelming atmosphere was starting to trigger a panic within me.

With my head down, I quickened my pace, determined to reach my dressing room. Despite the numerous people yelling at me to watch where I'm going, I remained indifferent to their protests. Taking a few more sharp corners, I suddenly heard a crash and felt a sharp pain in my side.

"Ah fuck" I yelped, then looked around to see a box of wires scattered on the ground, and a blonde girl hurriedly trying to gather them up.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry," I blurted out, attempting to maintain some semblance of manners.

"I-it's fine," her soft voice squeaked, a blush creeping across her face. I bent down to help her pick up the wires.

I grabbed a couple of wires, carefully ensuring they didn't get tangled together. "Hey, uh... sorry again. My name is Harry, if you care about that," I said awkwardly. Interactions with the opposite gender weren't exactly common for me, despite the fact that our performances were predominantly in front of girls.

"Don't worry about it. I'm Sophie," she replied softly. We finished gathering up the wires and other items that had fallen out of the box.

After that brief encounter, I realized I forgot to ask Sophie whether she works for us or for the venue. I mentally facepalmed myself for not exchanging contact information with her. As I don't often meet girls, moments like these, when I do have a stroke of luck, always seem to end in me messing things up, just like this.

I finally reached my dressing room and grabbed the door handle, only to find it packed with people setting up hair and makeup tools. They never seem to learn. I have my pre-show routine, and when it's disrupted, it throws off my entire performance. I demanded they leave, but they refused, citing my lateness as the reason. I couldn't quite recall why I was running late, but then the thought crossed my mind: "Stupid blondes," I scoffed under my breath.

Margaret wasted no time in pulling me into my chair in front of one of those mirrors with what felt like a thousand light bulbs. She's my personal stylist, and while I love her to death for her sweet demeanor, she really knows how to get on my nerves sometimes.

She rummaged through her makeup bag to find some brushes, and before I knew it, my face was being pulled around like a doll's while she caked on a whole bunch of products to cover my black eye. I didn't care whether the bunk was living or not, but if it were, I'd have relished the opportunity to beat the living shit out of it for giving me a black eye right before my performance.

After enduring about an hour of being pushed around like a ragdoll, Margaret finally finished my makeup and ushered me out to the stage. As I arrived, the curtain was about to rise. I was always the last one onto the stage, but I didn't mind; I always looked the best, unlike the other members of the band who never had to put on any makeup. Grabbing my mic, I waited as Niall did the first strum of his electric guitar, and the curtain began to rise. The most magical part of the night was always seeing the crowd for the first time; it reminded us just how famous we really were.

About halfway through the song, my solo drew near, and I felt as tense as ever, knowing I hadn't been able to do my pre-show routine. My fears were realized when the first note I had to hit was considerably high, and I missed it—both my cue and the note itself. My in-ear monitors weren't loud enough, so I couldn't hear the soft metronome that usually ticked in my ear. Continuing to sing, I slowly made my way to the back of the stage, planning to use the backstage mic after I finished my part to yell at the crew to turn up the sound in my ears.

The energy seemed slightly off-kilter, and we could all sense it, like a subtle ripple spreading through the crowd. Despite our efforts to maintain composure, there was an underlying unease that lingered throughout the remainder of the performance, casting a shadow over what was meant to be a flawless show.

As the final note of Leon's electric guitar fades in the stadium's echo, tensions rise among us. Moments later, our manager strides into the room, launching into a tirade about our supposedly flawless performance. Fed up with his constant negativity, I push myself up from my foldout chair.

"Do you ever have anything better to do than yell at us?!"