Finale #2
He slid an arm around my waist and tugged me into his side, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“Shall we get a drink?” he asked, gesturing towards the bar.
I nodded, and he led me through the swelling crowd. We paused now and then to greet other musicians, actors, and industry people, but eventually made it to the bar tucked into the back corner of the room.
The space was all dark wood and low light, with exposed bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
It had an urban, curated feel. Trendy, but not cold.
Spacious without losing its intimacy. At the front of the room stood a modest stage.
The boys’ instruments were already set up, but the keyboard had been replaced with a baby grand piano, its lid propped open like it was waiting to be touched.
“What are you feeling, baby?”
Bodhi handed me a menu listing a handful of mocktails and soft drinks. The mocktails sounded tempting, but I wasn’t keen on anything pretending to be alcohol. That meant no nojitos and no strawberry dry-quiris.
“Just a Sprite,” I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
He grinned and squeezed my ass, and I tucked myself closer to his side while we waited for our drinks.
As the night wore on, the room filled quickly. Bodhi drifted in and out of conversations, introducing me to old friends and collaborators, always circling back to me like an anchor.
At eleven, Jay climbed onto the stage and gave a short speech, thanking Noctis for trusting Ghostlight and for the work they’d poured into the album.
Then Mick followed, speaking on behalf of the band.
Thump sulked good-naturedly beside the amps, still bitter he hadn’t been allowed near a microphone for fear of what might come out of his mouth.
At eleven-thirty, Jay returned to the stage and called the band up for their performance.
Bodhi reached for my hand and tugged me towards the front of the crowd. Before stepping away, he leaned in and kissed me quickly, softly.
“I hope you like it,” he murmured into my ear.
Then he was gone, joining the others under the lights.
Clara appeared at my side, radiant in a silver cocktail dress that caught the light every time she moved.
“You’ve heard the song, right?” I asked her, trying to sound casual.
She just smiled and tapped the side of her nose.
“You’re unbearable,” I muttered.
“It’ll be worth it,” she said, blowing me a kiss.
Bodhi stepped up to the mic, one hand wrapped around it, the other tucked into his pocket. The room quieted almost instantly, the hum of conversation dissolving into anticipation.
“Alright,” he said, voice warm and steady. “Before we play, I just want to take a second.”
A few playful groans rippled through the crowd, and he smiled, easy and genuine.
“Tonight’s a big deal for us. This album is something we fought for. Not just to make, but to make it our way.”
He glanced back at the band, then out at the room again.
“So first, I want to thank our new label. For trusting us and giving us space. For letting us be honest, even when it wasn’t pretty.” He paused. “Especially when it wasn’t pretty.”
The room seemed to lean in.
“This record came out of a strange time in my life,” he continued. “A time when I had to stop and ask myself why I was doing any of this in the first place. When the noise got too loud and the thing I loved most started to feel like it was choking me.”
He exhaled into the mic, slow and deliberate, like he was grounding himself.
“I had to learn how to sit with silence,” Bodhi continued, voice calm but intent. “How to listen again. How to make space for the parts of myself I’d been running from.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Turns out, that’s where the best songs come from.”
A ripple of murmurs moved through the room. Someone whistled, sharp and piercing.
“This song was written during a time when I wasn’t sure what the future looked like,” he said. “When I didn’t know if I was strong enough to move forward.”
His eyes flicked briefly towards me. They didn’t linger, but I caught it anyway. The way his smile widened, just a fraction. When he spoke again, his voice softened.
“Someone reminded me that being loud isn’t always a bad thing. That sometimes the people who blow into your life like a hurricane don’t destroy you.” He swallowed. “Sometimes they change everything.”
He tightened his grip on the mic. This time, when his gaze found mine, he didn’t look away.
“This song is about finding your way back to yourself and choosing to stay. About learning that love, in all its forms, can be a reason to keep going.”
The lights dimmed.
“This one’s called ‘Wildflower Season.’”
My breath caught and my heart stumbled over itself.
Bodhi crossed the stage and took a seat at the piano. Ghost lifted his violin, tucking it beneath his chin, and when he drew the bow across the strings, a mournful melody spilled into the room. Bodhi joined in on the keys, steady and gentle.
Then he sang.
“You move like you’re counting the floor, like every step still matters.
I learned how to stand in the noise; you learned how to fall without shattering.
We talked in fields no one remembers, time slowing down in the dirt.
You said some things only grow where the ground’s already been hurt.”
My eyes burned. A single tear slipped free, trailing down my cheek.
It was us.
The lake. The gardens. Quiet conversations stretched thin by fear and hope. Two people learning how to exist without numbing themselves. Letting something fragile take root.
“They told me time would smooth the cracks; you said it shows you where you bend.
I don’t know who I was before, I just know who I am when you laugh.”
Riff’s guitar joined in, followed by Mick’s bass. Thump brushed his cymbals lightly, the rhythm soft and deliberate, like a heartbeat. When the chorus hit, the song lifted, transforming into something warmer. Something hopeful.
“We don’t heal in straight lines; we don’t bloom all at once.
I was chasing the high ground; you were learning to trust.
If the light flickers out, if the night pulls us under,
We’ll start again tomorrow, like we’ve always done.”
The tears came freely now. My body trembled as I watched Bodhi pour everything he was into the song, pressing his love and belief into every note.
Around me, phones rose into the air, their lights glowing in the dim room, a blanket of stars against the dark.
Bodhi turned his head slightly, and the phone lights caught the tears on his lashes, making them shimmer like pearls against his pale skin.
When our eyes met, the room disappeared. There was no crowd. No stage. Just Bodhi, singing his truth, and me, finally understanding that I had never been alone thanks to him.
“If loving you is dangerous, then let it be slow.
Let me learn your gravity before I let go.
Some things survive the winter without asking why.
They don’t need permission, just somewhere to try.”
There was another verse, a bridge, a chorus. As the song drew to a close, the instruments fell away one by one, until all that remained was the haunting, delicate ring of Ghost’s violin. When the final note faded, the room was silent. No one moved. It felt like even breathing might break the spell.
But then the moment shattered.
Applause exploded. There were cheers, whistles, and stamping feet. The sudden noise was deafening after the softness of Bodhi’s voice, and I had to fight the instinct to flinch. The band stepped forward to take their bow.
All except Bodhi.
He jumped down from the stage and cut straight through the crowd, straight to me. Before I could say a word, his hands framed my face and his lips were on mine. His cheeks were wet, pressed against my own as our tears mingled together.
Catcalls rang out and someone whooped. Bodhi didn’t care. He kissed me like this was the last thing he’d ever say, like everything in his song had led to here. And if he didn’t care, neither did I.
Somewhere beyond the roar of the crowd, I heard Jay start the ten-second countdown to midnight.
It felt like New Year’s Eve, only I’d already gotten my kiss.
When the clock struck twelve, confetti cannons burst overhead, and music that I guessed was from Noctis’s new album thundered through the speakers.
When we finally pulled apart, we stood there, breathless and flushed, lips swollen. I rested my hand over Bodhi’s chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath my palm.
“You missed your countdown,” I said softly.
He grinned and slid an arm around my waist, pulling me close until we were chest to chest.
“Why would I care,” he replied, “when I’ve got everything I need right here?”
I laughed and wrapped my arms around his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood. Feeling the only high I’d ever want again.
“I love you, Iggy Pop,” he murmured into my ear.
“I love you too, Just Bodhi.”
I held him tighter, like I could fuse us together through sheer will. My best friend. My anchor. The man who taught me that I could save myself without vanishing, that I could stand alone and still be seen.
Loving him hadn’t erased the damage. It hadn’t stitched me back into who I used to be, and I didn’t want it to. What it gave me was something steadier. The understanding that growth could be messy, visible, uneven, and still real.
In the end, we were like kintsugi. Broken pieces mended with gold, not to hide the fractures, but to honour them. Proof of where we’d been, and evidence of what we’d endured.
We weren’t broken.
We were transformed into something beautiful.