𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐬

I’ve spent half my life on stage with my two best friends, the three of us standing under blinding lights, singing into the dark where thousands of faces blur together. We grew from tiny rehearsal rooms and cheap microphones to sold-out venues and screaming fans. And somewhere between our first shaky rehearsal and our first world tour, he slipped quietly into our story. He was never supposed to be more than the manager’s son—the tall, quiet boy his father dragged into the studio to “keep him occupied.” Back then he had messy black hair, that one annoying strand falling into his bright blue eyes, and a camera he barely knew how to hold. But he watched us. Really watched us. Our nerves, our excitement, our arguments, our dreams. He knew our strengths before anyone else did, and our weaknesses even better. Now, years later, he’s no longer just “the manager’s son.” He’s our photographer, our videographer, our unofficial fourth member. He follows us from backstage hallways to tour buses, capturing the moments no one else sees—our shaky hands before shows, our exhausted laughter afterward, the parts of us the world never gets to witness. And somewhere between his quiet compliments, his steady presence, and the way he always finds my eyes in the crowd, something changed. At least for me. Whether it changed for him too… I’m not sure. Because he’s surrounded by fans now—girls who scream his name, grab his attention, pose for pictures like they already belong to him. And every time a photo surfaces of him smiling beside some pretty woman, something in me twists. Is she a client? A stranger? Someone he’s secretly seeing? Whatever is growing between us feels fragile. Dangerous. Something we can’t let anyone know about. After all, he’s the manager’s son. A relationship between us would be labeled unprofessional, reckless—maybe even career-ending. It feels like the most real thing in my life, but I have no idea if he feels the same.