A Musical Performance

"Hold still," the makeup artist said, dabbing more powder on my face. "The lights wash you out if we don't use enough."

I tried not to fidget as she worked, but it was hard when Parker was across the room getting his own makeup done, and every time our eyes met in the mirror, I felt my stomach do a little flip.

Three weeks into our fake relationship, and I still wasn't quite used to this part—the staged romance, the public appearances, the constant performance of being in love. Though if I was being honest, the performance part was getting easier. Maybe too easy.

"All set," the makeup artist announced, stepping back. "You look camera-ready."

"Thanks." I stood and smoothed down my outfit—a stylish but comfortable dress that Rachel had helped me pick out. We had back-to-back interviews today, then a promotional shoot for a travel brand that wanted to capitalize on our "relationship goals" image.

Parker appeared at my side, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a fitted button-down. "Ready for this?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." I took his offered hand, and we walked toward the interview setup.

The past few weeks had been a whirlwind. My single had dropped to positive reviews and decent streaming numbers—not a massive hit, but solid enough that my label was happy. Parker's movie had wrapped, and he'd already booked two more auditions for significant roles. Our joint promotional appearances were generating buzz, with fan accounts posting compilations of our "cutest moments" and magazines running features about young Hollywood couples.

Everything was going according to plan.

So why did I feel so off-balance?

"Celeste! Parker!" The interviewer, an energetic woman in her thirties, waved us over to the couch. "Thanks so much for joining us today. Your fans are going to love this."

We settled onto the couch, Parker's arm naturally draping across the back behind me. I leaned slightly into his space—close enough to look couple-y, not so close that it felt overwhelming. We'd gotten good at finding that balance.

The interview was the usual questions: How did you celebrate the single release? What's it like working on projects while maintaining your relationship? Any future collaborations planned?

Parker fielded most of the questions with his natural charisma, making jokes that had the interviewer laughing and adding just enough personal detail to make it feel authentic without being too revealing. I chimed in with my own answers, playing up my perfectionist nature and letting Parker tease me about my color-coded schedules.

"So Celeste," the interviewer said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I have to ask—did Parker inspire any of the songs on your upcoming album?"

I felt my face heat up, and I didn't have to fake my flustered reaction. "I mean, maybe? Some of them? I write about my life, and he's a big part of my life, so..."

"She's very mysterious about her songwriting process," Parker jumped in, squeezing my shoulder. "But I like to think I'm at least mentioned in the liner notes somewhere."

"More than mentioned," I said, meeting his eyes. And that wasn't even a lie—I had written about him, even if I'd told myself it was just for the sake of the performance.

After the interview wrapped, we had thirty minutes before our next commitment. Rachel appeared with bottles of water and an updated schedule.

"The travel brand shoot is in Studio B," she said, scrolling through her phone. "Then you have that late afternoon live performance at the radio station, Celeste. Parker, you're free after the shoot, but don't forget you have that script reading tomorrow morning."

"Got it." Parker checked his own phone, frowning slightly. "I should probably prep for that tonight."

"We should grab food between now and the shoot," I suggested. "I'm starving."

We ended up in a small café around the corner, tucked into a corner booth that offered some privacy. Parker ordered a sandwich, I got a salad, and for a few minutes we just sat in comfortable silence, both of us scrolling through our phones and decompressing.

"Your single is doing really well," Parker said, looking at something on his screen. "I saw it's climbing the alternative charts."

"Really?" I pulled up the charts on my own phone, feeling a surge of pride. "Oh wow. That's... that's really good."

"You deserve it. The song is great." He smiled at me. "I've listened to it about a hundred times."

"You don't have to say that—"

"I'm not just saying it. I mean it." His expression was sincere. "You're really talented, Cee. I know you sometimes doubt yourself, but you shouldn't."

Something warm bloomed in my chest. "Thank you. And for the record, you're really good at this whole promotional thing. The interviews, the appearances—you make it look effortless."

"That's just acting." He shrugged, but I could tell he was pleased. "Speaking of which, I got a callback for that TV show I auditioned for last week."

"Parker, that's amazing!" I reached across the table and grabbed his hand without thinking. "When?"

"Next week. It's a pretty big role—lead in a streaming series." His eyes lit up with excitement. "I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but..."

"But you're excited."

"Yeah." He squeezed my hand. "This whole fake dating thing... I know we did it partially for strategy, but Cee, it's actually working. I'm getting callbacks. People are paying attention again. I owe you for this."

"You don't owe me anything. This was always about both of us succeeding."

"Still." He didn't let go of my hand. "Thank you. For suggesting this. For being willing to take a chance on something kind of insane."

We sat there, hands linked across the table, and I realized that this—these quiet moments between the performance—were becoming my favorite parts. The staged interviews and photo shoots were fine, but this felt real in a way that made my chest ache.

"We should eat," I said finally, pulling my hand back. "The shoot's in twenty minutes."

The travel brand shoot was elaborate—they had us posing in front of tropical-themed backdrops, pretending to pack suitcases together, and staging candid moments that looked spontaneous but were carefully choreographed. The photographer kept calling out directions: "Parker, put your hand on her waist. Celeste, look at him like he just said something funny. Now both of you, pretend you're sharing a secret."

By the end of it, my face hurt from smiling, but the photographer seemed thrilled with the results.

"You two have such natural chemistry," she gushed, showing us some of the preview shots. "These are going to be perfect for the campaign."

I looked at the photos—Parker and me laughing, touching, looking at each other with what the camera had captured as genuine affection. And maybe it was genuine. Maybe that was the problem.

"One more appearance and then you're done," Rachel said as we left the studio. "The radio station performance. You ready?"

The radio station was intimate compared to other venues—just me, a microphone, and a small live audience of contest winners. Parker came with me, settling into the audience while I got mic'd up.

"We're so excited to have you," the host said, a friendly guy in his forties with a radio-perfect voice. "And we heard a rumor that your boyfriend is here in the audience?"

I glanced at Parker, who waved. The audience giggled. "Yeah, he's here for moral support."

"That's so sweet. Are you nervous performing in front of him?"

Was I? I should probably say yes, play up the cute couple angle. But the truth was more complicated—I was nervous, but not because Parker was watching. I was nervous because I'd been thinking about him when I wrote this song, and now I had to perform it while he listened.

"A little," I admitted. "But he's heard most of my music already. He's very supportive."

"Well, we can't wait to hear it. Take it away, Celeste!"

The instrumental track started, and I closed my eyes for a moment, centering myself. This song was one of my favorites from the upcoming album—upbeat but with an underlying vulnerability, about wanting something you're not sure you're allowed to want.

I opened my eyes and began to sing.

The audience swayed along, and I tried to focus on them, on the music, on anything except the way my awareness kept drifting to where Parker sat in the third row. But it was impossible not to think about him when every lyric felt like a confession I wasn't ready to make.

"You're right here but feel so far away I'm speaking but don't know what to say Is this feeling in my chest just friendly affection Or is it something else I'm too scared to mention?"

I let myself look at him for the chorus, and found him already watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Intent. Focused. Something that made my breath catch.

"Maybe I've been lying to myself Maybe I've been someone else Maybe all this time I knew That it was always you"

The song built to its peak, my voice strong and clear, and I poured everything into it—all the confusion and fear and longing I'd been feeling for weeks now. When the final note faded, there was a beat of silence before the audience erupted in applause.

Parker was standing, clapping hard, a smile on his face that made my heart race.

"That was beautiful," the host said. "Absolutely beautiful. Can you tell us a little about the inspiration for that song?"

I could feel Parker's eyes on me. Could feel my pulse in my throat. "It's about... realizing that your feelings for someone might be more complicated than you thought. About the fear of ruining something good by wanting more."

"Sounds personal."

"Most of my music is." I smiled, trying to keep it light. "That's kind of my thing—writing about my life and hoping other people can relate."

After the performance wrapped, Parker met me in the hallway outside the studio.

"That was incredible," he said, and there was something in his voice that made me look at him more carefully. "Really, Cee. That song..."

"It's just a song."

"Is it?" He stepped closer, and we were suddenly very aware that we were alone in the hallway, no cameras, no audience. "Because it felt like more than that."

My mouth went dry. "Parker—"

"I'm not asking you to explain it. I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "I just wanted you to know that I heard it. Really heard it."

We stood there, the air between us charged with something I didn't know how to name. This was supposed to be fake. This was supposed to be strategy. But the way he was looking at me didn't feel fake at all.

"We should go," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "Rachel's probably waiting."

"Yeah." But he didn't move, and neither did I.

Finally, someone from the radio station staff walked past, breaking the moment, and we stepped apart. Parker cleared his throat and checked his phone, and I busied myself with gathering my things.

As we walked out to meet Rachel, Parker's hand found mine, lacing our fingers together. It would look natural to anyone watching—just a couple holding hands.

But I knew the truth. It felt like a question neither of us knew how to answer.

Later that night, alone in my apartment, I pulled up my songwriting notes and stared at them. Pages and pages of lyrics, many of them about Parker even though I'd told myself they weren't.

My phone buzzed.

Parker: hey

Parker: about that song today

Parker: it was really good

Parker: i mean it

I read the messages three times, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? That I'd written it thinking about him? That every time we held hands or stood close or looked at each other a beat too long, I felt something I wasn't supposed to feel?

Me: Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.

Parker: always

Parker: get some rest. you have a packed day tomorrow too

Me: So do you. Good luck with the script reading.

Parker: thanks. night Cee ❤️

Me: Night ❤️

I set my phone down and lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. We'd been doing this for three weeks. Three weeks of staged romance and promotional appearances and performing for an audience.

So why did it feel more real than anything I'd ever experienced?

I didn't have an answer. All I knew was that somewhere between the careful planning and the strategic appearances, something had shifted. The lines had blurred. And I was starting to think I was in serious trouble.

But that was a problem for future me to solve.

For now, I closed my eyes and tried to remember what it felt like before—before the fake dating, before the constant awareness of Parker's presence, before I'd started writing songs that were definitely, absolutely, completely about him.

It felt like a long time ago.

It felt like a different person entirely.