The Spotlight

Chapter 24

Pale morning light, the color of diluted tea, seeped through the gap in my curtains, nudging my eyelids open. A hesitant breath, a tentative swallow - the rusty nails scraping down my throat from yesterday had dulled to a faint soreness, a phantom limb of pain. Progress, I thought, the word a small, hopeful bloom in the anxious landscape of my mind.

My hand, still heavy with sleep, fumbled across the bedside table, searching for the smooth, cool rectangle that is my phone. The screen blinked to life, a constellation of notifications scattering across the dark background. One name, one gravitational pull, drew my attention instantly: Gary.

My heart did that ridiculous little skip-jump thing that I'd become mortifyingly familiar with over the past few weeks. Like a teenager with her first crush, which was both humiliating and thrilling for a woman edging toward thirty who should definitely know better. But apparently, my heart didn't get that memo.

His message waited for me like a small gift, unwrapped and precious.

How are you feeling this morning? I'll come by later to check on you. Keep resting your voice x.

That final 'x'-making my stomach flip, a delicious secret shared between us, hidden from the prying lenses that now defined both of our public lives. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, a fragile bloom against the lingering soreness in my throat. He was coming over later again.

I traced my finger over his name on the screen, remembering how just weeks ago, the idea of Gary Barlow sending me good morning texts would have seemed as likely as me sprouting wings and flying to the moon. Now he was bringing me soup and sitting on my couch and... God, sending me kisses in text messages. When exactly had my life turned into this strange alternate reality?

My fingers, still clumsy with sleep, tapped out a quick reply.

Better than yesterday. Still resting voice. Looking forward to seeing you later x.

I hesitated a fraction of a second before adding my own 'x', a tiny act of defiance against the rules that separated us, a silent echo of the kisses we shared. It felt both reckless and necessary-a whispered confession in a language only we understood.

I pressed send before I could overthink it, then immediately wondered if I should have added more or less or something different entirely. The eternal dating dilemma, amplified by a thousand when the person on the other end was, well, him.

The flat was a tomb of silence, the air thick and still after weeks of living in the contestant house with its constant, chaotic symphony of voices and movement. I'd forgotten what true quiet felt like-the way it pressed against my eardrums, amplifying the rhythm of my heartbeat, the subtle creak of floorboards beneath my feet. It was unsettling, this sudden absence of external noise, like stepping from a crowded room into a vast, empty field.

My bare feet met the cool wooden floor as I slid out of bed, sending a ripple through my body, a physical awareness of myself in this unfamiliarly quiet space. I walked toward the bathroom, my reflection already waiting. Its pallid face with dark smudges under the eyes-a spectral reminder of worry and interrupted sleep.

"Hello, gorgeous," I mouthed to myself sarcastically, the words forming silently on my lips in a cruel imitation of my usual morning greeting. The voice my career hinged on, the one thing I'd always been able to count on, had betrayed me in the most critical week of the competition.

I opened my mouth, the faint soreness, a ghostly echo of yesterday's raw pain. In the mirror, I leaned closer, peering as though I might glimpse the infection itself, a microscopic enemy threatening my future in a competition that now seemed like a fragile thread stretching toward an uncertain horizon. The doctor's warning replayed in my mind-complete vocal rest until Friday-a death knell for my career if this damn infection didn't clear up.