Behind the Curtain

17

Beyoncé

The clock struck midnight, and the countdown echoed through the room as I watched the excitement unfold. Cowboy Carter was finally here. The clinking of glasses and the shouts of celebration blended into a symphony of triumph. Shawn and I shared a tight embrace, our faces close, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, "Congrats BB."

I felt the euphoria of the moment, but beneath it lay a complicated knot of guilt and regret. I was acutely aware of the eyes on us, including those of someone who had been much more than just an observer, she being a reminder of choices I had made—choices that strained us..

The thought if us and the secret shared only between us was a ghost haunting every joyful note and every clink of glasses.

As the party wound down, I knew I needed to face what had been left unresolved.

Y/N

I was barely settled into my room when I heard a knock at the door. "Who is it?" I called out, but it was followed by a heavy silence.

The knock came again, "Who is it?" I demanded, my patience thinning rapidly.

With a resigned groan I got up and opened the door only to find Beyoncé standing there. The sight of her, her eyes holding a look of pain, struck me like a punch to the gut.

"What do you want, Beyoncé?" I whispered clearly edged with frustration.

"Beyoncé?" I haven't heard you call me by my full name in ages."

"What do you want?" I asked again, more firmly.

"Calm down Y/n. I just want to talk," she said.

"Beyoncé, we literally have nothing to talk about. Whatever it is make it quick. I don't have all night," I said, irritation clearly on display.

"Look, I know things have been rough between us, and I'm sorry for the way I handled things. I just—"

"Just what?" I cut her off sharply. "You want to explain yourself now?"

"I didn't come here to fight. I came to make things right. Maybe.. maybe we can talk through this. I don't want us to end on bad terms."

I stared at her, the familiar pain of betrayal flaring up again. The words seemed hollow, she meant nothing to me.

"Goodnight, congrats on the album Beyoncé." I tell her, while closing the door but she blocks me from closing the door.

"Listen to me, I know, can we at least try to talk, let's not run from this, please work this out with me."

I struggled internally, torn between my desire to maintain my distance and the part of me that yearned for her. Finally, I sighed and stepped aside. "Fine. You have five minutes. Then I'm done."

Beyoncé walked in, the door closing behind her with a soft click. I took a seat on the edge of the bed, the room seemed to shrink as the weight of unresolved issues filled the space between us.

She began to speak but I cut her off, "I don't know what you think this is or what kind of game you're playing but I don't have time for it. You had sex with me. We spent time on a secluded beach together for days, write a song about me, just for you to go home to your cheating husband and spazz on me for hanging out with my best-friend thinking I was fucking on her. And now you're acting as if nothing happened? Whatever it is I don't really think I want to hear it Beyoncé." I say.