The bass from the live stream thumped through Y/n's phone speaker, tinny and distant, but still enough to make their chest ache. On screen, the crowd was a sea of swaying bodies, phone lights held up like stars. And there, center stage under the hot white spotlight, was Malachi.

He looked good. Too good. Rings glinting under the lights as his fingers moved over the strings, that easy smile he always got when he was in his element. The camera panned, catching Freya leaning into him, her shoulder brushing his, and the crowd screamed.

The comments flooded in. Freya and Malachi are so endgame. Look at them! They're literally perfect together. Y/n's thumb hovered over the screen, ready to close the app, but they couldn't look away.

This was supposed to be their night. Y/n should've been there, in the front row, catching Malachi's eye mid-song like they always did. Instead, they were here, alone in their room, watching through a screen because the thought of standing in that crowd, watching Freya crowd into Malachi's space, made them feel like they were suffocating.

Malachi's voice crackled through the speakers. He was talking to the crowd now, that low, easy tone he used when he was being charming.

And then his eyes scanned the front row. The smile on his face flickered, just for a second, before he turned back to the mic.

Y/n's phone buzzed. A text from Malachi lit up the top of the screen.