73-Zach
I’m in the upper stands with Steve, dead center with a perfect line to the stage.
Ollie spots me from the lighting station below and gives me a thumbs up. Then he raises his brows, silently asking the same question he asked earlier.
Are you sure you don’t want to go backstage?
I shake my head. Seeing Kit now would blur the line I’ve fought to redraw, unravelling all I’ve worked so hard to rebuild. Besides, I need to know if he understands my vision as a fan, and not everything else I might have been to him.
Kit—I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But this documentary has always been mine. And this night has always belonged to him.
We have to put ourselves before us.
The crowd’s breath gathers like a storm about to break as the arena dims. A low buzz vibrates through the floor, and the fans roar up an earthquake that shakes the rafters.
Illuminating the stage like a moonbeam, a single spotlight pierces the darkness. The LED screens behind the band flicker to life, swirling with deep purples and blues, constellations forming and dissolving in time with the opening chords.
Judas rises from below the stage, fog curling around his boots as the platform lifts him slowly. His cloak trails behind him as the horns of his mask gleam, catching every flash. Red paint glows across his exposed skin like molten metal, accentuating each of his flexed, supported breaths.
Simply seeing him splits me apart.
My mind flashes back to his naked body against me, that very skin warming mine. His rough hands—gripping my hair instead of that microphone. The way he whispered my name like a prayer, rather than singing Somnium’s scripture.
I miss him so much it hurts.
His voice.
I lose myself in it the way I did before I met Judas or Kit. Before I knew his laugh, fears, and softness. He marked my heart and soul irrevocably, far before I ever knew him. With music.
That will remain. Always.
The memories made after, I’ll keep sacred, like a keepsake you pull out sparingly to admire, in fear of its value decreasing from too much exposure.
By the time the first song ends, my throat’s already tight. I sing along with the crowd, my voice hoarse and heart full by the third. By the fifth, I’m not thinking about camera angles or lighting cues or editing timelines.
I’m just a fan among a crowd of thousands. A soul amid souls. The energy in the arena is electric. People cry and scream as they cling to each other. And as the final song plays, I cheer with them, tears streaming freely.
It’s tragic, hearing it live again after a month away, knowing this is the last time.
Judas takes multiple bows, cloak sweeping dramatically behind him as he saunters across the stage. Instead of heading off so the documentary trailer can play, he turns toward the piano. Sometime during the applause, it was rotated to face away from the audience.
A ripple of confusion moves through the crowd as he walks toward the bench. The stage dims to a single spotlight, casting him in stark contrast. His silhouette is carved from shadow. He sits, and the arena goes silent.
With a single, fluid motion, he lifts his hands to his mask.
A collective gasp sweeps through the stadium as he removes it. Tension coils through his shoulders. Placing it gently on the edge of the piano, the horned mask is set like a crown laid to rest, though a giant hood still swallows his face. I grip the railing.
You could hear a pin drop.
“If you don’t mind,” he says, posh London accent unfiltered as he leans into the mic, “I’d like to play something a little different.”
Judas begins to perform a delicate, haunting melody, and I lose my breath. It’s the one he played at Steve’s house, brushing it off as nothing. Steve elbows me, his beaming grin a sign that he recognizes it, too.
I look down at the barricade; Cooper’s filming, thank Chip. Two of his drones hover near the stage, blinking like fireflies.
Judas sings about threads of fate, invisible strings weaving through our lives and sewing us together.
Each person we meet is a stitch, each emotional moment a knot.
Sorrow is a frayed edge, but love is the needle, guiding each loop.
And despite the heartbreak and grief, we thread it, again and again.
It’s about how meeting someone changes the shape of your life forever, even if they don’t stay long.
Destiny and timing.
His voice carries through the arena, pure and aching, hitting notes I’ve never heard him reach in a falsetto. A lone figure at a piano—back turned but heart open.
When he plays the final notes, they linger like a stretched pause. There’s a good five seconds of absolute silence before the arena explodes with hands thrown into the air.
Something inside me shifts, quiet but irreversible.
Palms pressed to my mouth, tears streaming down my face, I know with absolute certainty that this is an end.
But it’s the beginning of something so much bigger.