The final note rang out across the arena, twenty thousand voices joining Melissa's in perfect harmony. Sweat dripped down her face as she gripped the microphone stand, chest heaving, the stage lights painting everything in brilliant white. The crowd was on their feet, a sea of phone screens capturing the moment, their cheers washing over her like a tidal wave.
"Portland, you've been incredible!" she shouted into the mic, and the roar somehow got even louder.
She raised her arms, soaking in the energy, letting it fill the hollow spaces inside her chest. For these three minutes of encore, she could almost forget. Almost believe the words she'd just sung were really hers.
The band struck the opening chords of "Midnight Confessions"—her biggest hit, the one that made her a household name. The crowd sang every word, their voices carrying the chorus she'd never written.
As the song ended and the lights dimmed, Melissa blew kisses to the crowd, her smile bright and practiced. But as she walked off stage, each step away from the spotlight felt like shedding a costume she could never quite make fit.
---
"That was magic out there, Mel! Pure magic!" Her manager Elena pushed through the backstage chaos, arms spread wide. "Did you see how they reacted to the bridge in 'Broken Promises'? I swear half the audience was crying."
Melissa nodded, accepting the towel someone handed her, wiping away sweat that felt more like shame. Around her, the usual post-show circus: backup dancers high-fiving, sound techs packing equipment, her publicist already on the phone with some late-night talk show.
"The authenticity," Elena continued, not noticing Melissa's silence. "That's what sets you apart. When you sing those lyrics, people believe you've lived them. They feel every heartbreak, every hope. That's not something you can fake."
*But I am faking it,* Melissa thought, forcing a smile. *Every single word.*
"The label is thrilled," Elena went on, checking her phone while she talked. "Pre-orders for the next album are already through the roof. They want to fast-track the recording schedule. Get you back in the studio next month."
Melissa's stomach dropped. Another album. More songs she'd have to pretend came from her heart instead of some stranger's computer screen three thousand miles away.
"Sounds great," she managed, her voice hoarse from two hours of singing emotions she'd never felt.
Elena finally looked up from her phone, studying Melissa's face. "You okay? You seem a little off tonight."
"Just tired." The lie came easily now, worn smooth by repetition. "Long tour."
"Well, get some rest. We fly out to LA tomorrow for the talk show circuit. Jimmy Fallon wants you to do an acoustic version of 'Shattered Glass.' Just you and a guitar, really intimate."
Intimate. As if stripping away the band and production would somehow make the borrowed words more hers.
---
Two hours later, Melissa's penthouse overlooked the city, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Portland's glittering skyline. But she kept the blackout curtains drawn, padding across marble floors in silk pajamas that cost more than most people's rent.
Her assistant had left everything perfectly arranged: organic green juice on the kitchen island, tomorrow's schedule printed and color-coded, fan mail sorted into neat stacks she'd never read. The space was pristine, sterile—a magazine spread masquerading as a home.
She microwaved leftover Thai food from a container, eating it standing at the counter while scrolling through social media. Thousands of posts from tonight's show already flooded her feeds. Videos of her singing words that belonged to a stranger. Comments praising her "vulnerability" and "raw emotion."
*"Melissa Rivera gets me like no other artist"*
*"These lyrics speak to my SOUL"*
*"How does she know exactly what heartbreak feels like???"*
Each comment was a small knife twist. They weren't connecting with her—they were connecting with Drae. A man she'd never met, whose real name she didn't even know, who poured his authentic pain into verses she performed like an actress reading lines.
The silence pressed in around her. No roommates to laugh with, no family dropping by unannounced, no friends who knew her before the fame. Just the hum of expensive appliances and the distant sound of traffic twenty floors below.
She wandered through rooms that felt like museum exhibits of someone else's life. The Grammy on the mantle for an album she hadn't written. Gold records lining the hallway for songs that came from someone else's heartbreak. Photo shoots and red carpet appearances where she smiled and talked about her "creative process" and "artistic journey."
The lie had grown so big she sometimes forgot it was a lie at all.
---
By 2 AM, Melissa sat cross-legged on her California king bed, phone balanced on her palm. The screen showed her email chain with [email protected]—two years of professional exchanges, melody attachments met with perfect verses, payment confirmations and polite thank-yous.
She scrolled up through months of messages. His words were always brief, businesslike. But buried in those lyrics he sent back were pieces of a soul she recognized. Someone who understood heartbreak not as a marketable emotion, but as a living thing that reshaped you from the inside out.
The latest song he'd sent, just last week, had lines that made her chest ache:
*"I'm tired of wearing faces that don't fit,
Singing songs that aren't mine to sing,
If I could find the courage to be real,
Would you love the broken things I'd bring?"*
When she'd first read those words, she'd wondered if he somehow knew. If the mysterious D. Chen had seen through the carefully constructed facade of Melissa Rivera, pop princess, to the scared girl underneath who just wanted someone to understand.
Her finger hovered over his last email. Three words at the bottom, below his electronic signature: *Hope you're well.*
Such a small kindness. When was the last time someone had asked about her wellbeing without an agenda? Without wanting something from her, without calculating how her answer affected tour dates or album sales or public image?
She opened a new message, typed and deleted a dozen different openers:
*"I was wondering if we could meet..."*
Delete.
*"Your latest lyrics really spoke to me..."*
Delete.
*"I feel like there's more to discuss..."*
Delete.
Finally, she set the phone aside and spoke to the empty room:
"I want to see him."
The words hung in the air, dangerous and desperate. For two years, their professional distance had been a safety net. He wrote the words, she sang them, money changed hands, and everyone stayed in their lane. Meeting him would change everything.
But sitting in her perfect, empty penthouse, surrounded by success that felt like a beautiful prison, Melissa realized she was already drowning.
Maybe it was time to reach for the only real thing in her manufactured life.
Maybe it was time to meet the man who knew her heart better than she knew it herself.