Chapter 5
JULIAN
“I wish I could be more like you.”
The words fell out of me before I could stop them, weighted and raw, like I’d been carrying them around in my chest for years just waiting for the right moment to set them down. I didn’t mean to make this conversation heavy, but I found I never wanted to deny Malik my truth.
Malik didn’t turn right away to acknowledge me.
I knew he was already thinking about what I’d just said.
We were sitting on the floor of the practice building, backs pressed together, knees pulled up, brown paper bags between our feet.
Other students drifted past, voices echoing, laughing, singing, gossiping, the scrape of shoes against linoleum.
No one paid us any attention, my favorite time of the day.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I stared at my hands. Studying my long fingers, a pianist’s hands.
Hands my parents decided the fate of before I ever touched a keyboard.
The slight calluses on my fingertips from hours of practice, the way my knuckles protruded when I stretched them.
These hands that belonged to me but had never truly been mine.
“You move through the world like you don’t have to ask permission,” I said. “Like you’re already allowed to be who you are. You walk into a room and just. . .exist. Without apology. Without constantly checking to see if you’re taking up too much space.”
He huffed softly, shoulders lifting briefly. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” I insisted. “Your mom lets you breathe. She sees you. Really sees you.” I laughed, short and humorless. “For fuck’s sake, my middle name is Miles. Like they already knew what I was supposed to be. Like destiny was a family decision. A trajectory I never got to question.”
Malik leaned back into me, the solid line of his shoulder blade fitting against mine. The warmth of him seeped through my thin cotton shirt, an anchor in that moment of rare honesty.
“You know, they continuously ask me if I have a girlfriend,” I said quietly.
“All the time, like that’s the only future they recognize or accept.
At dinner, at family gatherings, at church.
‘When are you going to bring a nice girl home, Julian?’ Like there’s this script for my life they’ve already written, and any deviation would be unforgivable. ”
He didn’t interrupt, chewing his sandwich thoughtfully, giving me space to unravel these thoughts I’d kept tightly wound for so long. The sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting patterns across the linoleum floor. In that moment, that stolen pocket of time, I felt almost brave.
“I just wish my mom could be more like yours. Could see me without trying to fix me or mold me into something else. Someone else.”
Silence stretched between us, but that was what made Malik and I such good friends, what made me. . .well. What made me feel safe enough to breathe. We didn’t need to fill every space with words.
Then Malik’s fingers brushed mine, a light caress, careful, but full of intention. His pinky hooked around mine, a small connection that felt enormous. My heart thundered in my chest as though that tiny point of contact was electrified.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he said. “Once the competition results come out, once we get to Juilliard, we’ll be far away from all of this. On the other side of the country. No judgement. You’ll get to live freely. Be whoever you want to be. Play whatever you want to play.”
I swallowed, shaking my head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be free.” The admission hurt my throat, like swallowing glass. “Not really. They’ll always have expectations. I’ll always be carrying them with me, inside me.”
He turned then, shifting so our foreheads touched.
His breath ghosted over my skin, the act sending shivers down my body.
Our eyes locked, brown to brown, my stomach flipped in anticipation.
I wanted so many things right there, right then.
Our mouths were only millimeters away. If I leaned in further, our lips would touch and all would be right with the world.
I could feel it. The possibility vibrated between us, electric and terrifying.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he said again. Softer. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Miles.”
The name anchored itself somewhere deep inside me. No one ever called me Miles, but Malik could use it any time he wanted. I only wanted to hear it leave his lips. When he said it, it became something new, not a legacy or a burden, but a secret shared between us. Something that belonged only to me.
The present comes back hard and fast. The slamming door of my tour bus brings me back to the here and now.
The metal rattles, the sound sharp and final.
My pulse is too loud in my ears, breath coming faster than it should.
I brace my hands against the counter of the galley kitchen and gaze out the tinted window and stare at nothing, trying to shake the memory loose.
It clings to me like a second skin, refusing to be discarded.
I saw him tonight. Malik was there in the wings watching me play.
Even after all this time, after countless performances, I’ve forced myself to keep my eyes on my keys.
Too afraid to look up and find him there like I used to.
Too afraid to find him absent. Tonight though, it was instinct.
I felt him, and the worst part is how easily it all came back.
All the smiles of encouragement, the support, his presence was everything.
The weight of his gaze, the gravity that always pulled me toward him.
All the fucking things I had buried deep and put to rest when he’d all but betrayed me.
The memory of his face in the shadows tonight, older now, sharper, more guarded, threatens to unravel years of careful compartmentalization. That glimpse of him watching me perform knocked something loose inside my chest that I’ve spent years locking down.
I don’t even remember leaving the stage. I practically ran out of the venue, knocking over a mic stand in the wings, brushing past technicians and stagehands without a word. My body moving on autopilot, seeking distance, seeking safety, seeking anywhere he wasn’t.
The door opens again, quieter this time, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. The rush of cool air from outside momentarily clears my head.
Eli steps in, already smiling, smoothing his hand down his immaculately tailored suit. His presence brings the real world back into focus, the world of contracts and appearances and carefully managed expectations.
“Julian, absolutely brilliant show,” he says. “Really good. That second movement in the third piece? Masterful. You’re already trending on social media, by the way. Damon is thrilled. I just got off the phone with him. This is exactly what the label wanted.”
I give him a smile that feels practiced even to me, muscle memory taking over. “That’s good. Then this will be worth it in the end.” The words sound hollow, a script I’ve recited too many times to count.
He studies me for a beat longer than necessary, eyebrows raised in concern.
Eli has always been good at reading between my silences.
He knows without saying why I fled the building.
I usually decompress after a performance, retreating to my dressing room to collect myself before facing the world again.
I couldn’t stomach hearing Malik’s set though.
The thought of sitting there, feeling his voice vibrate through me, watching him command the stage with that effortless charisma, it was unimaginable.
He blows out a breath and doesn’t mention it, and I am grateful.
“We’re rolling out earlier than his team. You will arrive there first,” he adds, a peace offering disguised as logistics. “I’ll see you in Las Vegas.”
Relief flickers through me at the certainty of distance. Another city, another venue, another chance to avoid confrontation.
“Okay,” I say, the word carrying the weight of unspoken gratitude.
He hesitates, then nods once, satisfied. “Did you forget? Portia’s here. He was waiting in your dressing room. I brought him with me. He’s outside and wants to know if you are still up for company.”
“Yes,” I say too quickly. Damn it. I completely forgot I asked Portia to come tonight.
Considering tonight would be the last time I got laid for a while.
I need him now more than ever. Need the distraction, the physical release, the momentary oblivion.
Steadying my voice, I clear my throat, “Tell him to come in.”
Eli’s gaze lingers, knowing but not judgmental.
He’s the only one who knows the full shape of my life.
All the compartments and the rules that make up my life of living my truth in secret.
A gay man who’s never lived free and open.
He knows about the NDAs, the careful vetting, the back entrances and the private elevators.
The elaborate architecture I’ve built to house my desires without letting them destroy everything else.
“I’ll give you privacy,” he says, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Only then do I let myself breathe, pulling the knot of my tie loose and tossing it to the nearby couch.
I unbutton my shirt with trembling fingers and remove my suit coat.
The weight of performance slides off my shoulders.
The crisp white fabric is damp with sweat at the small of my back, evidence of the tension I carried throughout the show.