Ryan's POV
The remote control flew across the room and hit the wall.
I had been trying to change the channel for ten minutes, but every station was showing the same thing - Joan's music. My Joan. Well, not my Joan anymore. She belonged to the whole world now.
"Ryan, what was that noise?" Mom called from the kitchen.
"Nothing, Mom! Just dropped something!" I lied, picking up the broken remote. Great. Now I was stuck watching her whether I wanted to or not.
The TV showed Joan on stage, sparkling like a gem under those bright lights. Twenty thousand people screamed her name while I sat alone in my small living room in our tiny city. The same town she couldn't wait to escape.
But I couldn't look away.
She looked different than she did three years ago when we finished high school together. Her hair was longer and shiny. She moved like a real star now, bold and perfect. But something in her eyes looked scared.
I knew those eyes. I had looked into them a million times when we were kids.
"Flying High" started playing, and my heart hurt. That was the song she wrote in my shed when we were seventeen. She sang it to me first, sitting on my dad's old desk with her guitar. Now millions of people thought it was just another dance song.
Back then, she was just Joanie from down the street. The girl who climbed trees with me and shared her lunch money when I forgot mine. The girl who cried on my shoulder when her pet hamster died. The girl who promised we'd always be best friends.
That promise didn't last long.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from my pal Mike: "Dude, your girlfriend is on TV!"
I typed back quickly: "She's not my girlfriend. Never was."
But that was a lie too. She was never officially my girlfriend, but she was everything to me. Still was, even though she probably forgot I existed.
The crowd on TV was going crazy. Joan smiled and waved, but I could see right through it. She was putting on an act. Something was bugging her. After knowing someone for fifteen years, you can tell when they're faking happiness.
I grabbed my notebook and opened social media. Everyone was posting videos from her show. "Joan Robert is a goddess!" "Best concert ever!" "I love you, Joan!"
But then I saw something weird.
In one fan's film, I could see Joan looking scared. Really scared. She kept glancing toward the VIP area like something was wrong. The fan who posted it wrote: "Anyone else notice Joan seemed nervous tonight?"
Other people commented: "Yeah, she looked worried about something." "Something felt off." " She kept checking her phone."
My stomach twisted. Joan never got nervous during shows. She was born to act. When we were in high school theater club together, she never had stage fright. Not once.
I scrolled through more vids and posts. Most people thought the show was amazing, but a few noticed what I saw. Joan was scared of something.
On TV, she was singing "Dream Catcher" now. The whole crowd sang along, but I wasn't fooled. I knew her real smile from her fake one. This was definitely fake.
My phone rang. Mom's contact photo showed on the screen.
"Ryan, are you watching this?" she asked excitedly. "Our little Joanie is on TV! She looks so beautiful and happy!"
"Yeah, Mom. I'm watching."
"Remember when she used to come over for dinner every Sunday? She always said you made the best chocolate chip cookies. You should call her and congratulate her on the show!"
I almost laughed. "Mom, Joan Robert doesn't take calls from small-town guys like me anymore."
"Don't be silly. You two were inseparable. I'm sure she misses you too."
But she didn't miss me. If she did, she would have called sometime in the past three years. Or texted. Or sent a message through her parents. Anything.
When Joan left for the big city to chase her dreams, she promised to stay in touch. For the first few months, we texted every day. She told me about her tiny apartment and her job at a music shop. I told her about community college and my part-time job at the hardware shop.
Then the texts became once a week. Then once a month. Then nothing.
I knew why. She was becoming someone amazing, and I was just the same old Ryan who never left home. Why would a rising star waste time on a guy who sold hammers and nails for a living?
The show was ending now. Joan took her final bow and waved to the crowd. But right before she walked off stage, she looked straight into the camera. For just a second, it felt like she was looking right at me.
Her eyes said "help me."
I shook my head. I was imagining things. Joan didn't need help from anyone, especially not me.
But then something happened that made my blood run cold.
The TV moved to a news reporter standing outside the arena. "What an incredible show from Joan Robert tonight," she said. "But we're getting reports of some unusual behavior backstage. Our sources say Joan received a threatening message during the show."
My heart stopped.
"We don't have information yet, but security is investigating. Joan's manager refused to comment, but insiders say the superstar seemed shaken up after the show."
I sat up straight. A frightening message? Joan was in danger?
My phone started buzzing with alerts. Text texts from friends who knew Joan and I used to be close. "Did you see the news?" "Is Joan okay?" "You should call her!"
But I didn't have her number anymore. She changed it when she got famous, and I never got the new one.
The news reporter continued: "We'll keep you updated on this growing story. For now, Joan Robert has left the theater with extra security."
Extra security. Threatening threats. Joan looking scared on stage.
My hands were shaking as I grabbed my laptop again. I had to find out more. I had to know if she was safe.
I looked for more news about the concert, but everything was just starting to come out. Most stories just talked about how amazing the show was. Only a few stated anything about problems.
Then I found a movie that made my stomach drop.
Someone had recorded Joan backstage after the show. She was talking to her manager, and she looked frightened. The video was shaky and far away, but I could read her words. She said something about "a girl watching me" and "recording something."
Recording what? Who was watching her?
I felt helpless sitting in my small town while Joan faced some unknown danger three hundred miles away. She might not remember me anymore, but I still cared about her. I always would.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Your friend Joan is about to learn what real fear feels like. You can't save her from here."
The phone fell from my hands and crashed to the floor.
Someone knew who I was. Someone knew Joan and I used to be friends. And they were threatening her while letting me know I was helpless to help.
Joan wasn't just in trouble. We both were.