Looking Forward

The venue hummed with energy—a living, breathing thing made of anticipation and excitement and hundreds of voices blending together. I stood backstage, peeking through the curtain at the crowd filing into their seats, and felt my heart hammering against my ribs.

My first solo concert.

"Five minutes, Celeste," Maya called out, adjusting her headset.

Five minutes. Five minutes until I walked onto that stage and performed songs I'd written, songs I'd poured myself into for months. Songs about ambition and friendship and love—the messy, complicated, beautiful kind of love I was only just beginning to understand.

I touched the small microphone clipped to my outfit—a elegant but comfortable ensemble that let me move freely while still looking put-together. Violet had helped me choose it, insisting I needed something that felt like me, not like I was playing a character.

"You look amazing," Rachel said, appearing at my elbow with her phone. "Social media is going crazy. The hashtag's already trending."

I smiled, but my stomach was still doing flips. Not the bad kind of nervous—the good kind. The kind that meant I cared, that this mattered.

"Have you heard from Parker?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Rachel's expression softened. "Not yet. But he might be—"

"I know. He's busy. Filming schedule." I waved it off, trying to sound casual even though part of me ached that he wasn't here. We'd been texting sporadically since our fight two weeks ago—awkward, careful messages that danced around everything we'd left unresolved. "It's fine. This is my night. I don't need anyone else here to make it special."

"Damn right," Violet said, joining us. "You've worked your ass off for this. You're going to kill it."

I took a deep breath, centering myself. She was right. I'd rehearsed until every movement was muscle memory. I'd practiced until my voice could hit every note in my sleep. I'd planned and prepared and done everything in my power to make this concert perfect.

But standing here now, I realized something: perfection wasn't the point.

The point was connection. The point was sharing something real with the people who'd supported me. The point was standing on that stage and being completely, authentically myself.

"Two minutes," Maya announced.

The house lights dimmed. The crowd's chatter rose to a roar of excitement.

I stepped away from the curtain and closed my eyes, letting the sound wash over me. Somewhere in that crowd were fans who'd been following me since Treehouse Summer. People who'd listened to my early singles and stuck around through the evolution of my sound. People who'd watched me and Parker on our gaming channel and shipped us long before we'd even considered being anything more than friends.

And maybe, just maybe, one person who'd rearranged his entire filming schedule to be here.

But I couldn't think about that now.

"You've got this," I whispered to myself.

The opening notes of my first song began—a pulsing beat that I felt in my chest. My cue.

I walked onto the stage.

The lights hit me, bright and warm. The crowd erupted in cheers, and for a moment, I was overwhelmed by the sheer size of it all. Hundreds of faces looking at me with excitement and joy and anticipation.

Then I found my mark, grabbed the microphone, and began to sing.

The first song was upbeat and energetic—something to get everyone on their feet. I moved through the choreography Maya and I had spent weeks perfecting, feeling the music pulse through my body. The crowd moved with me, singing along to the chorus, and I felt something click into place.

This. This was why I did this.

The song ended to thunderous applause, and I grinned, breathless.

"Hi everyone!" I called out, and the crowd roared back. "Thank you so much for being here tonight. I'm Celeste, and this is my first solo concert ever, so if I mess up, just pretend you didn't notice."

Laughter rippled through the audience.

"But seriously, this means everything to me. You all mean everything to me." I paused, feeling emotion well up. "I wrote most of these songs over the past year, during a time when I was figuring out a lot about myself. About what I wanted. About what matters."

The crowd quieted, listening.

"So tonight isn't just about performing. It's about sharing that journey with you. The messy parts and the beautiful parts and everything in between." I smiled. "Let's do this together, okay?"

The next song was slower, more intimate. I'd written it during one of those late nights when Parker and I were still figuring out the fake dating arrangement—a song about uncertainty and taking risks and not knowing where you're going but trusting the journey anyway.

As I sang, I let myself feel every word. Let myself be vulnerable in front of hundreds of strangers. Let myself be honest about the confusion and fear and hope that had defined the past few months.

The crowd swayed with the music, phone lights creating a galaxy of stars throughout the venue.

We moved through the setlist—upbeat dance numbers that had everyone jumping, ballads that made the venue fall silent except for my voice, songs about dreams and disappointment and determination. Each one felt like opening a door into my heart and inviting everyone to look inside.

During a costume change, I could hear the crowd chanting my name, and something warm bloomed in my chest. They were here for me. Not for the actress I used to be, not for the girlfriend of someone famous—for me and my music.

I came back out in a simpler outfit for the acoustic section—just me and a piano, like I'd practiced with Parker months ago in my apartment. The memory made my chest ache, but in a way that felt more sweet than painful.

"This next song is new," I said, settling onto the piano bench. "I wrote it recently, during a time when I was realizing some things about myself. About feelings I'd been having for a while but didn't quite understand."

My fingers found the keys, and I began to play.

The song was about the moment you realize you're in love—not the dramatic, movie-version moment, but the quiet realization that happens gradually and then all at once. About looking at someone familiar and suddenly seeing them differently. About the fear of ruining something good by wanting something more.

I poured everything into it—the confusion, the longing, the hope, the terror. Every lyric was honest in a way that made me feel exposed and powerful at the same time.

When the final notes faded, the silence stretched for a heartbeat before the applause crashed over me like a wave.

I stood from the piano, blinking back tears. "Thank you," I managed.

The rest of the concert flew by in a blur of music and movement and joy. I danced with backup dancers during the high-energy numbers. I joked with the crowd between songs. I felt completely, utterly alive in a way I'd never experienced before.

For the final song, I'd chosen the single that had started everything—the one I'd written after that fake date with Parker, trying to capture what inspiration felt like. Back then, I'd thought I was just writing about creative partnership and friendship.

Now, singing it, I understood what it had really been about all along.

The last note rang out, and the crowd was on their feet, cheering and screaming and calling for an encore. I stood at center stage, breathing hard, soaking it all in.

This was everything I'd worked for. Everything I'd dreamed about since I'd decided to transition from acting to music. And it was more than I could have imagined.

"Thank you," I said into the microphone, voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for letting me share this night with you."

I took my final bow, and as I straightened up, something caught my eye in the wings.

A figure standing in the shadows, partially hidden by equipment and crew.

My heart stopped.

Parker.

He was here. In dark jeans and a hoodie, trying to be inconspicuous, but I'd recognize him anywhere. His eyes met mine across the distance, and he smiled—that soft, genuine smile that was just for me.

He'd come.

Despite his insane filming schedule, despite everything complicated and unresolved between us, he'd come.

I felt tears prick my eyes as I waved to the crowd one final time and walked off stage. The moment I was out of the audience's view, my professional composure cracked.

Parker stepped forward, and suddenly I was running to him, not caring about the crew members watching or the sweat or the makeup probably running down my face.

He caught me easily, arms wrapping around me tight.

"You came," I said against his chest.

"Of course I came." His voice was soft, warm. "Did you really think I'd miss this?"

I pulled back to look at him. "You're supposed to be filming."

"I told them I had a family emergency. Which isn't technically a lie because you're family, and it would've been an emergency for me to miss this." He brushed a strand of hair from my face. "You were incredible, Cee. I mean it. I've never seen you shine like that."

"I didn't think you were coming. I thought after everything—"

"After everything, I'm still your biggest fan." His thumb traced along my cheekbone. "And we still need to talk. Really talk. But tonight is about you and your success and this amazing thing you just did."

Maya appeared with a towel and water bottle. "Great show, Celeste! Press is waiting in the green room whenever you're ready."

"Five minutes," I said, not taking my eyes off Parker.

When we were relatively alone again, I said, "I'm sorry. For how I handled everything. For trying to end things when I was really just scared."

"I know. I'm sorry too." He took my hand, lacing our fingers together. "But we don't have to solve everything tonight. Tonight is for celebrating you."

"Will you stay? For the after-party?"

"I have to head back to set in a few hours, but yes. I'll stay as long as I can."

Relief and happiness and something deeper flooded through me. "Okay."

He squeezed my hand. "By the way, that new song? The piano one?"

"What about it?"

"I knew exactly who it was about." His smile was knowing and tender and made my heart race. "And for the record? I feel the same way."

Before I could respond, Rachel appeared with a reminder about press obligations. Parker gave me one more quick hug—"Go be a rockstar"—and I was swept into the whirlwind of post-concert responsibilities.

But throughout all of it—the interviews, the photos, the congratulations from industry people, the after-party where fans told me how much my music meant to them—I felt lighter than I had in weeks.

Parker stayed for two hours before he had to leave for set, but those two hours were filled with easy conversation and inside jokes and the comfortable intimacy of two people who'd been pretending but weren't anymore.

When he finally had to go, he pulled me aside one more time.

"I'm proud of you," he said simply. "Not just for tonight, but for everything. For following your dreams even when it was hard. For being brave enough to be vulnerable on that stage. For being you."

"Parker—"

"We'll talk. Soon. Really talk about everything. But I needed you to know that first." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "I'll text you when I'm done filming tomorrow?"

"Please."

After he left, I found myself back in the now-empty venue, standing alone on the stage. The house lights were up, the magic of the concert faded into normal fluorescent reality. But somehow, it still felt magical.

I'd done it. I'd performed my first concert. I'd shared my music and my heart with hundreds of people and survived. More than survived—I'd thrived.

And somewhere along the way, I'd learned something important: I didn't need to have everything figured out. I didn't need an eighteen-page plan for my love life or a perfect roadmap for my career.

Sometimes the best things happened when you stopped trying to control everything and just let yourself feel.

I pulled out my phone and opened a new note, fingers moving across the keyboard.

Song ideas: the moment you realize you don't have to choose between ambition and love. About being scared and doing it anyway. About finding yourself by letting someone else in.

I smiled and saved the note.

There would be time to write those songs. Time to have those conversations with Parker. Time to figure out what came next.

For now, I just wanted to stand here and feel proud of myself.

I'd come so far from that girl who'd accidentally called her best friend her "B1" on a livestream. I'd learned what I wanted, what I needed, and who I was when I stopped performing for everyone else.

And I was pretty happy with who I'd become.

My phone buzzed with a text from Parker.

Parker: I can't stop thinking about that piano song

Parker: also I love you

Parker: you’re so amazing

I read the message three times, heart racing, a smile spreading across my face.

Me: I love you too

Me: Thank you for coming tonight. It meant everything.

Parker: wouldn't have missed it for the world

I looked out at the empty seats, imagining them filled again with people who'd come to hear me sing. People who believed in my music and my dreams.

Then I looked at Parker's message, at those three words that weren't part of any plan but felt more right than anything I'd carefully orchestrated.

Maybe that was the real lesson I'd learned through all of this: the best moments in life weren't the ones you could plan for.

They were the ones you had to be brave enough to let happen.

And I was finally ready to be that brave.