Lovestuck

Chapter 33

Backstage was chaos.

Lights flared, props clattered, voices echoed off the rafters. Stagehands rushed to adjust lighting and speakers. A member

of the Techno Appreciation Society dropped a cable with a loud thud, causing a student magician to curse under his breath.

Somewhere, a fog machine wheezed ominously.

And amid it all, Riya moved with precision. Laser-focused. Heart thrumming. It was Monday, the 26th. The Talent Show.

She had memorized the set list. Checked every mic, every light cue, every performer’s name. Her clipboard was worn soft at

the corners from so much flipping and scribbling. Snacks? Stocked. Lint rollers? Accounted for. Safety pins? More than strictly

necessary.

Everything was in place. Everything except, of course, Quin.

“I should have signed up to do a performance, too,” they announced, sauntering in with coffee like they hadn’t just missed

final call. “Wouldn’t it have been great if Student Council did an opening skit? Give the people what they want?”

“The show begins in fifteen minutes,” Riya replied without looking up from her clipboard.

“Exactly. So we’ve got time.”

Riya ignored them and checked her phone again. But no message from Kian. No update. No sign of him in the wings. And the longer

the silence stretched, the more it pressed at her ribs.

Just what was he planning?

Quin leaned into the curtain. “Ooooh. You should see the crowd. You might actually feel something. Terrifying, I know.”

Against her better judgment, Riya took a look.

The auditorium was full to bursting. Students packed shoulder to shoulder. Parents balancing programs and lattes. Teachers

clustered near the exits, arms crossed. The air buzzed—not with chaos, but with expectation. And it hit her like a gust: This

wasn’t just a school event anymore. It was hers. Something she’d helped build.

She felt the pride start to rise—and then, just as quickly, the uncertainty. Was he out there?

She suddenly felt sick.

“RiiiiiRi!”

A finger jabbed her shoulder.

She turned—and there was Mel, glittering from cheek to boots, her dress black and soft as a cloud.

“Mel?” Riya blinked. “What are you—why aren’t you in your seat?”

“I just wanted to check on you,” Mel said. “You’ve been working your butt off.”

“What about Andrew?”

Mel grinned. “He’s saving our seats. He’ll survive a minute without me.”

Riya shook her head but smiled. “Well, you look amazing.”

Tonight Mel wore a black plaid mini dress with tights and long boots adorned with little bows. Her hair was pulled up with

matching bows, and her cheeks sparkled with a hint of glitter.

“I had to,” Mel said. “Tonight’s going to be something.”

Something. The word sat heavy between them.

“Break a leg!” Mel waved before flitting off into the wings. Quin glanced at their phone.

“Five minutes left till showtime. Should we do this?”

“Wow,” Riya murmured. “You’re being responsible. Shocking.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Quin offered their arm like a storybook prince. “Come on, my favorite VP. Time to charm the masses.”

She took their arm. They made it three steps before Riya pulled back slightly. “Quin—wait.”

They turned, head tilted. “Mm?”

“I just wanted to say . . .” She hesitated, but didn’t look away. “Thanks. For pushing me. Even when I hated it.”

Quin blinked.

A smile touched their lips. A real one.

The curtain suddenly jerked open. The roar of applause swallowed everything. Light poured down on them—blinding and warm.

Riya stepped forward with Quin, eyes adjusting slowly to the sea of faces.

Her family was there. She spotted them instantly: Nyra and Amara were on their feet, waving. Her mother let out a whistle, and beside her, her father beamed proudly. She found Andrew, too, one row from the back. Grinning and giving her a thumbs-up. But to his right—the seat was empty.

Riya frowned. Maybe Mel had just gotten caught up somewhere backstage.

Quin’s voice rang out through the auditorium. “Hello, Abbersett!” they yelled into the microphone. That earned them a fresh

round of applause, an ear-deafening wave of shouts and whistles. Ever the natural performer, Quin grinned, soaking in the

energy.

The lights dimmed again. Quin stepped forward first, taking the mic with a practiced flourish.

“Welcome to the thirtieth annual Abbersett High Talent Show!” they said, voice warm and theatrical. “My name is Quin Sheehy,

president of Student Council,” they continued, “and here’s the brains behind tonight’s show—our VP, Riya Khan!”

Riya stepped up beside them. The lights felt hotter now. She forced a smile.

“On behalf of the rest of Student Council, we want to thank you all for coming.”

Quin leaned toward the mic again, a twinkle in their eyes. “But tonight’s about more than just showcasing the incredible talent

here at Abbersett. It’s about giving every performer a chance to show a piece of themselves.” Their grin widened.

“So, be loud, be proud, and most important—have fun. Because that’s what makes moments like this matter.”

Another wave of applause. Deafening. Wild. Quin basked in it like it was sunlight.

The lights dimmed. The music shifted. The show was beginning.

And Riya—

She scanned the audience one last time. Still no sign.

The DJ club, consisting of only three members, quickly set up their equipment, and beams of yellow and red light cut through

the auditorium like they were in the middle of a dance club. Their set was short—only two songs—but they mashed them together

with ease, filling the space with such infectious sound that several people in the audience popped out of their seats to dance

in the aisles.

Next up was Flora, the Student Council secretary. Despite her unassuming stature, her voice was thick and velvety-rich, perfect

for a cover of “Criminal” by Fiona Apple. She wore a sleek black dress and red lipstick that popped beneath the stage lights,

using the microphone stand to her advantage and commanding the crowd like a seasoned performer.

It won her a standing ovation.

“Looks like the rest of Student Council needs to step up,” Quin whispered, grinning backstage. Riya nodded, sharing the same

sense of pride.

The momentum didn’t slow after that. The two rock bands followed, pulling off incredible covers of songs, including “Come Together” by The Beatles and “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes.

The heavy bass shook the walls, and for a moment, Riya forgot that they were at the Talent Show and not a concert.

Then came Jamal, a junior whose breakdancing routine made the entire auditorium practically explode; he defied gravity, twisting

and flipping and moonwalking across the stage in a blur.

But Riya was getting nervous. Anonymous’s slot was coming up soon, with a performance, as they’d written on the sign-up sheet, of a single unnamed song. But there

was still no sign of them. Quin, meanwhile, was watching the stage with an air of calm that Riya couldn’t comprehend.

“Let’s prepare to cut the show short,” she whispered, leaning in toward Quin.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Quin replied, not making eye contact.

Riya’s eyebrows raised. But there was something in Quin’s tone, a quiet assurance that gave her pause.

The Comedy Club’s performance ended with a final punch line that sent the crowd into a frenzy. But Riya wasn’t laughing. She

was staring down at the set list, heart ticking faster with every second.

It was time for the final act. For Anonymous.

She turned to Quin, voice low. “We need to prepare to cut the show short. If they’re a no-show—”

But Quin merely raised a hand. “Just watch.”

Riya opened her mouth to protest. Then closed it.

Suddenly, the lights went out, and the darkness silenced the auditorium.

A flurry of movement crossed the dark stage—feet shifting, equipment being rolled out—but it all blurred into background noise.

Riya stood frozen, every nerve in her body waiting. Listening.

Then: a single blue spotlight. And there he was.

Kian.

Sitting at a piano. Like an estranged old friend he’d almost forgotten.

He took a breath and lowered his hands to the keys.

The shadows under his eyes were still there. The tension in his shoulders, too. But beneath the mess of dyed hair, there was

something steady in his face. A quiet calm she hadn’t seen before.

And in his white T-shirt and jeans, under that wash of blue light, he was—

Beautiful.

Riya’s fingers dug into her clipboard, heart pounding.

Kian leaned forward and adjusted the mic. “I dedicate this one,” he said, voice steady, “to the future.”

Then he began to play.

The first notes rang out low and clean, curling through the auditorium like smoke, soft and sure.

It wasn’t a cover, like the other musicians had performed. No one in the crowd recognized it—she could hear the murmurs, the restless shifting in seats—but Kian didn’t waver.

The spotlight widened. A drummer slipped in—someone from Band. Then another figure appeared at a harp.

Riya blinked.

It was Mel. Her fingers glided over the strings, ribbons of sound spilling into Kian’s melody.

They’d planned this. All of it.

And suddenly, she saw it for what it was. Not a performance. Not a stunt.

A promise.

The harp and the piano braided together, weaving something wordless that tightened in Riya’s chest, warm and unsteady and

alive.

Kian had been right. Music could do that.

And now she felt it, too.

“Even if you forget,” Kian crooned into the mic, his eyes closed, “let me be the part that stays.”

There was something dangerous about this feeling—this much truth, laid bare. But for once, she didn’t recoil from it.

Quin stepped closer. “Riya?” they whispered. “Your eyes—”

“What?” she asked, but her voice came out hoarse.

“They’re . . .” Quin’s eyes widened for a moment, then they shook their head. “It’s nothing. Probably just the lights.”

But Riya knew it wasn’t. She felt it immediately—the magic stirring again.

This time, warmth bloomed low in her chest, like a door easing open from the inside.

And for once, she didn’t fight it. She let herself feel it.

She liked Kian. The thought settled softly, unmistakable.

Because it was him.