Rhett had never been good at playing pretend—not when it came to emotions. On stage, sure. He could deliver a heartbreak ballad and make the crowd ache with him. But those were rehearsed scars. Crafted metaphors. He could perform sadness without reliving it.
This, though? Messaging June under a fake name while growing addicted to her unguarded honesty?
This was real. And it was eating him alive.
He found himself caught between two truths.
One: He was falling for a girl who didn't know who he was.
Two: He was terrified she'd stop falling back once she found out.
Every message he sent from his anonymous account—"CallMeElias"—felt like it came from two mouths: the man who wanted to be known, and the man afraid to be seen.
Because Rhett Calloway, the stage version of himself, was curated and calculated. Hair tousled just right. Voice always a little rough in the morning for interviews. Every emotion filtered through lyrics and branding.
But Elias? Elias said things Rhett couldn't.
Elias didn't care about PR. He didn't worry about viral tweets or judgment from industry execs. Elias asked questions like:
Do you think some people are made to love more quietly than others?
And June would reply:
I think some people love like they're listening to a symphony no one else hears. Doesn't make the music less real.
God. Her mind. Her mind.
It undid him.
There were days when Rhett nearly told her.
He'd start typing:
June, I need to tell you something. I'm not who you think I am—
And then delete the entire thing.
Because what if the magic disappeared the moment his real name entered the room?
He didn't want her to flinch. Or stumble over her words. Or apologize for her blog post like it had been too much.
Because that post—honest, breathless, reverent—was the first time anyone had written about him like he was a person and not a product. She'd seen the pain behind the lyrics. She'd even guessed the loneliness, though he'd never once confirmed it.
And she'd never asked for more than he offered.
She made space without reaching for the spotlight.
Which made the lie of omission feel even more dangerous.
Rhett walked into rehearsal one afternoon still thinking about her last message.
You remind me of the moon. Always watching, always present, but never quite touchable. I think I like that about you. The distance. It's comforting.
He wanted to scream.
Because she knew. On some level, she had to know.
But maybe she didn't.
Maybe the real him would feel less than the version she'd built in her mind.
The band launched into the opening chords of a new track. Rhett half-sang, half-spoke the lyrics he'd written just days ago—lines tangled with her:
You saw the boy beneath the chorus
The echo, not the stage
You traced the cracks and called them holy
Not something to erase
His producer gave him a look after the last note died. "That new one—'Chords of You'? It's different. Hurts more."
"Yeah," Rhett said softly. "That's how I know it matters."
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He paced his apartment barefoot, a whiskey glass untouched on the windowsill. The city lights blurred through the glass like static.
He opened their chat.
Scrolled through messages that read like stitched-together diary entries.
June talking about her fear of being ordinary.
About her mother's silence after she confessed she didn't want a traditional life.
About the boy who'd kissed her like a dare and vanished like a ghost.
She was raw with him.
And he? He had hidden behind a name.
He didn't deserve her trust.
But he couldn't let her go.
He typed:
Do you ever feel like you're two people at once? The one the world sees, and the one who watches from the shadows?
She replied almost instantly:
All the time. Sometimes I think I'm the shadow. Like, the real me lives in the quiet moments no one applauds.
I feel that too, he wrote.
Then maybe we're not shadows. Maybe we're just… waiting for the right light.
Rhett stared at the screen, heart drumming. The right light. She always had a way of making things sound less broken and more in-progress.
He clicked over to her blog. She hadn't posted in days.
He reread her post about the concert.
There was this one moment during 'Wild Harbor.' He looked up, and I swear—just for a second—it felt like he wasn't singing to a crowd. It felt like he was trying to be heard. Not adored. Just… understood.
That line haunted him.
Because it was true.
He had seen her in the front row.
He had been singing to her.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd felt it too.
The next morning, he finally called Liz.
"I'm coming clean," he said.
She didn't argue. She just asked, "Are you ready for whatever happens next?"
"No," Rhett said. "But I'd rather lose her for telling the truth than keep her by pretending it isn't one."
He sat down that afternoon with a guitar and recorded the rawest demo of his career—just one take. No edits. Just his voice, cracking in places, and six strings trembling beneath the weight of his confession.
He titled it "Stranger with Familiar Words."
He uploaded it to a private link.
And then, with fingers shaking, he messaged June.
There's something I want you to hear. It's not polished. But it's me. All of me. Click play if you're ready.
Then he added, one final time:
—Rhett
No pseudonym.
No mask.
Just the name she'd written about once, not knowing that name belonged to the man reading her every word like scripture.
He hit send.
And waited.