Page 4

fame feels hollow

KIERAN

T he tour bus is moving , but nothing else is.

I’m slouched on the sofa, one arm flung over my eyes like it might block out more than the harsh glare of the overhead bulbs. My ears are still ringing, my shirt’s still damp, and the adrenaline is long gone.

Outside, streaks of orange and black blur through the tinted windows—just another motorway driving us to a new city, where we’ll do it all over again.

We’re halfway through the UK run. Six months of promoting the hell out of our music, trying to prove to the label that we’re worth the gamble. It’s kind of a trial run to see if the hype holds, to see if we’re more than noise and novelty.

It’s been years of grinding. Late nights, cheap gigs, vans that have seen better days. Now, for the first time, it actually feels like we’re getting somewhere. We’re playing in bigger venues, the crowds are getting louder, and the fans sing lyrics back at us like they mean it.

Still, I feel like I’m five minutes from falling apart. Because with the momentum comes the pressure—the label breathing down our necks, the deadlines stacking up, the spotlight that never blinks.

And beneath it all, there’s this constant, low hum of fear. That I’ll mess it up. That I’ll be the one to crack under it and take everything down with me.

My phone’s a blur of notifications, all bleeding into each other—texts from near-strangers, a few names I half-recognise, a missed call I’m pretty sure is PR.

I ignore it all. Open Instagram. Close it. Open it again two seconds later, like maybe this time it’ll show me something that matters. Something that feels real, instead of just more noise.

It doesn’t.

There’s a tagged photo. Someone in the crowd caught me mid-song, jaw clenched, head thrown back under the lights. Hair a mess, sweat curling at my temples. The caption calls me a legend , but all I see is someone trying too hard to make it look like he know’s what he’s doing.

The door at the back of the bus creeps open, and my attention shifts as Luca strolls in, dragging his guitar case behind him.

His dirty blond hair sticking up in every direction, like he’s just rolled off a beach instead of a stage.

He’s the only one who manages to treat this life like a damn holiday—so laid-back, he’s horizontal.

Luca tosses me a beer and drops onto the sofa next to me, cracking his open like this is just another Tuesday night. “You look like shit, mate.”

I grunt. “Cheers.”

He laughs and leans back, taking a long swig. “Didn’t think you’d survive that last encore, thought we were gonna have to drag you off stage like a passed-out toddler.”

I smirk. “I’m fine. Getting pretty good at making it look like I have it all together.”

“Sure you are.” He eyes me over the rim of his bottle. “Thing is, you’ve been doing it for a while now, Kieran.”

Meeting his gaze, I think about saying something real—that I still love the music, that being on stage feels like the only time I can breathe, but it’s everything that comes with it that’s eating me alive.

I swallow it down and let the moment pass. “Tell that to the crowd.”

Luca shrugs, but he doesn’t push it. He just finishes his drink and stands, stretching his arms up with a groan. “Get some sleep, bro,” he says, heading toward the bunks. “You’re starting to look like your own before photo.”

I stay where I am, beer still sweating in my hand. My phone’s back in my grip, the screen lighting up my face in the dark. My thumb shifts to the photo gallery. I open it—not even sure why.

The screen floods with memories. Old photos of us back in the dive bar days, high on hope and instant noodles. Ryder pulling faces, Luca half-naked in the background of nearly every shot, Theo passed out in a drum case. I’m smiling in most of them. Genuine smiles.

I swipe to the next photo. And fuck .

Her face hits like a sucker punch to the ribs. Long brown hair tangled from dancing, cheeks dusted with glitter, that wide, sun-swallowing grin. She isn’t looking at the camera, just off to the side, her half-lidded eyes fixed on something else, lost completely to the music.

And just like that, it’s all back. The heat, the noise, the blur of that entire week. But mostly, just her. The girl in all the colours. The one who made the entire world slow down just long enough for me to notice.

She looked like freedom. God , I just wanted to know her.

Four Years Ago

It’s the end of our set on the first day. We’re playing one of the smaller stages, but it feels massive to us. My pulse is still hammering from the final chorus, chest thudding like it hasn’t decided if we’re flying or free-falling.

Then I see her.

She’s leaning against the barricade, plastic cup in one hand, the other resting on the metal rail behind her like she owns it. She’s not screaming or filming like half the crowd—she’s just watching. Locked in. As if the music’s under her skin and she’s letting it move through her.

She’s wearing this glittery dress that catches the light every time she shifts, legs for days, curves that make it impossible not to stare, and these mismatched earrings that somehow pull it all together.

Glitter dusts her cheeks. Her long brown hair hangs in loose, heat-softened waves, like it’s been kissed by summer.

She’s not trying to stand out. She just does.

And she’s smiling. Not the polite kind. Not the kind you give a stranger. This one’s real.

Before I’ve even decided to move, I’m already jumping off the stage. I grab a beer from the side and head straight for her, heart thudding harder than it did mid-set.

She sees me coming. Smirks. Doesn’t move an inch.

“Hey, you,” I say, flashing a grin.

Her lips curl. “Hey,” she says casually, like I’m not dripping with sweat and nerves. “You’re Kieran, right?”

I raise a brow. “That obvious, huh?”

Her head tilts, just slightly. She gives me a slow once-over that feels less like a glance and more like an X-ray. “I think it’s the hair.” She reaches into her bag, pulls out a flyer, and waves it at me. “Also, this says so.”

“Ah. Solid detective work.”

“I’m Ellie.”

“Ellie.” I let it settle in my mouth.

“Eleanor, technically. But I only hear that when I’m in trouble.”

I grin. “Trouble, huh? Good to know.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Why? Planning to cause some?”

I lean in a little, just enough to test the air between us. “I’ll let you know.”

Her smile curves sideways, a little mischievous now.

“Beer?” I ask, holding out the bottle.

She eyes it, then me. “You always this charming, or is this just a post-set ego trip?”

“I’m a very charming man.”

“Hmm.” She takes the bottle and lifts it in a mock salute. “Alright then, rockstar. You've got five minutes. I’ve got a hotdog on the way.”

I laugh. “I’m competing with meat in a bun?”

“Not just any meat,” she says seriously. “Naomi's been talking about them like they're the best thing since sliced bread.”

“Big competition, then.” I say. “But I've got charm, half a beer, and the confidence of a man who just wore leather trousers in thirty-degree heat.”

She gives me a long once-over. “The trousers were—a choice.”

“That sounds dangerously close to an insult.”

“More of an observation.”

God, she’s quick. Everything I throw, she volleys back like it’s nothing. No fawning. No wide-eyed awe. Just standing there, arms loose, eyes bright, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll drop the act or double down.

Fuck, if she doesn’t intrigue the hell out of me.

I lean against the barrier beside her—close, but not too close. “Who's Naomi? Your wing woman?”

“She's my best friend,” Ellie says, taking a sip of beer. “We've been coming here since we were nineteen.”

“You two tear it up every year?”

“We used to. These days, it's two nights of chaos followed by the rest of the week on our backs, drinking coffee in the acoustic tent.”

I chuckle. “Rock and roll.”

“Exactly.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, light but lingering.

I glance sideways. “So, Ellie. What’s a guy gotta to do to earn extra time?”

She looks at me, long and steady. “Be real.”

I nod. “Yeah? I think I can manage that.”

She smiles—soft, but guarded. “Then maybe you’ll get it.”

“I think we’re about to have the best week ever.” I grin.

Her eyes flick to mine. “What makes you so sure?”

I shrug. “I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

She smirks. “Bit full of yourself.”

“Occupational hazard.”

She tilts her head, voice dipping just a little. “What makes you think I'd be interested in spending the week with you?”

I lean in close enough to feel the warmth rolling off her. Close enough to see the freckles dusting her nose, the tiny heart-shaped mole just beneath her left cheekbone.

“Because I’m not just some rockstar, Ells ,” I say low. “I’m the guy who spotted you in the crowd—the girl in all the colours—who couldn’t stop grinning once the music started.”

Her lips twitch. A faint blush rises in her cheeks.

“And if I don't usually go for the whole lead singer thing?”

“You'd be missing out,” I say, with a wink. “But I'm persistent.”

She stepped back a little, her smile widening. “We'll see about that.”

A jolt from the bus brings me back. I blink at the ceiling like I've just surfaced from underwater. I glance at the photo of Ellie that’s still lit up on my screen, her frozen smile shining back at me. My thumb hovers over it, as if I might delete it.

I don't. I just lock the screen and toss the phone onto the cushion beside me.

Christ .

I hadn't let myself think about her in, I don't even know how long. Not in a way that makes something shift behind my ribs.

When she left with no explanation and no way to reach her—it cracked something open in me and left this unfinished corner in the back of my mind I never quite knew what to do with.

I told myself it was just a week. A blip. A bit of fun wrapped in glitter, loud music, and cider buzz.

Still—there was something there. Some spark of what if that never had the chance to burn into anything real.

I tried to let it go. And mostly, I did. Buried it under work, noise, late nights, louder crowds. Threw myself into the blur of it all. There were women, too. A string of them, if I’m honest. Some stayed a while. Most didn’t. None of them ever really stuck.

They liked the version of me that lived on stage. The noise, the swagger, the stories. They wanted the idea of me, not the quiet parts. Not the mornings after or the soft-spoken bits. But Ellie—she never wanted the facade. She saw right through it.

She made me feel… seen. Not watched, not admired— seen . And no one’s ever made me feel like that since. She left a mark. Not the kind that fades, not really. Just settles somewhere low and steady, like a chord still vibrating long after the song ends.

Maybe it was never meant to last. Maybe we were just two people who caught each other at the right moment—just not the right time. I don't know. I gave up trying to make sense of it a long time ago.

It's too late for all that, anyway. She's gone, and I'm still here.

But there’s this gnawing in my gut I can’t shake. Like something's shifting. Like the ground’s about to move beneath me, whether I’m ready or not.

I close my eyes. Try to sleep. Try to push it down like I always do.

But it lingers.

Won’t let go.

Not tonight.