The Spotlight

Chapter 44

The stage plunges into darkness. Two brilliant white pin-spotlights cut through the void like searchlights finding their targets. One illuminates me, my hand gripping the microphone stand so tightly my knuckles have gone white against the metal. The other lands on Gary, seated at the polished black grand piano that gleams under the harsh light.

Behind us, a massive LED screen displays a vast, photorealistic starfield—thousands of pinpricks of light scattered across an endless black canvas. The atmosphere feels epic yet deeply intimate, like we're floating alone in the universe. The crowd's roar fades to a hush so complete I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Gary's fingers find the opening chords, the notes echoing in the silent studio with crystalline clarity. He looks directly at me, and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes are filled with a universe of unspoken emotion—everything we've said and haven't said, everything we've been and can never be again.

He begins to sing the first verse: "You light the skies, up above me..."

The camera zooms in for a close-up on his face, and I have to grip the microphone stand harder to keep from swaying. Suddenly I am aware that he's wearing the forest green silk tie.

My mind flashes back instantly to an hour ago—the black tie he wore in his dressing room when I first walked in. He must have changed it the moment I left. After everything that's happened between us, after all the careful distance and professional politeness, he's wearing my tie. It's a secret, final gesture—a declaration of something that feels both beautiful and excruciating.

As Gary sings the next line, "A star, so bright, you blind me, yeah..." his gaze deliberately drops to my wrist. To the simple silver star bracelet he gave me at the beginning of the competition, after my very first performance. I've never taken it off. Not once. Through every rehearsal, every show, every moment of joy and heartbreak—it's been there, a constant reminder of where this all began.

It's a silent, shared acknowledgment of our entire story. From the hopeful start when he first placed it on my wrist with such gentle care, to this devastating end where we're saying goodbye through song lyrics and stolen glances.

It's my turn. I bring the microphone to my lips, and my voice joins his. The harmony is as perfect and effortless as it's always been—a sonic representation of our connection that transcends everything that's gone wrong between us. Our voices blend like they were created to exist together, like this is what we were always meant to do.

Internally, I pour every feeling into the performance. The love that's been tearing me apart for months. The anger at David for his cruel revelations and entitled demands. The heartbreak of knowing this is the last time our voices will ever blend like this, the last time I'll stand beside Gary and feel like I'm exactly where I belong.

I sing with a desperate, beautiful ferocity, channeling everything I can't say into the notes that soar between us.

As we hit the powerful chorus, the stage explodes around us. The spotlights bloom into a wash of deep indigo and violet light that bathes everything in ethereal color. The starfield on the screen behind us begins to swirl and shimmer, like a time-lapse of a galaxy being born, stars wheeling in cosmic dance.

A gentle, low-lying fog rolls across the stage floor, catching the colored lights and making them appear to float in space. The grand scale of the production amplifies the personal intensity of our performance, making this moment feel both intimate and infinite.

The song builds and builds, our voices climbing together toward something transcendent. For these few minutes, nothing else exists. Not David's threats, not the competition, not the impossibility of our situation. Just Gary and me and the music we create together.