Chapter 29 Lila
Chapter twenty-nine
Lila
My voice sounds perfect.
That’s the first problem.
I stand center stage under rehearsal lights that make everything look too clean, too honest. The band hits the intro. The click track counts me in. My muscle memory takes over.
I open my mouth.
The notes come out smooth. Controlled. Right where they’re supposed to be.
And there is no emotion behind it.
It’s like singing in a vacuum.
I watch my own hands move when I gesture on a lyric. Watch my feet find their marks. My face does the super-smile thing it’s done a thousand times.
The techs glance at each other. Subtle. Professional. Trying not to make it obvious.
Manny hovers by the wing, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the room. Protective, as always. More protective than usual.
He doesn’t say anything because nothing is technically wrong.
Except everything is wrong.
There’s a hollow space by the curtains where Cam used to stand.
My chest tightens as if my body is still expecting him to occupy that space and can’t compute the absence.
I blink hard and keep singing.
The chorus lifts. The band swells. The sound in the room is big.
Inside me, it’s static.
I should be able to lose myself in this. This is my world. The one place where I’ve always known what to do. Even when everything else goes wrong, I can step into a song.
Today my own lyrics don't belong to me.
I finish the verse and glance down at my hands like maybe they’ll tell me what I’m missing.
Nothing.
The mic is warm under my fingers. The room smells like cables and coffee and the faint sharpness of stage fog.
The song ends.
Silence follows.
Not the good kind. Not the satisfied kind.
The kind where everyone is pretending not to notice what’s missing.
And I’m standing in the middle of my own life, realizing I can’t feel my way back into it.
I try again.
I make it halfway through the second chorus before my focus slips.
The lyric disappears mid-line, like someone erased it. I open my mouth and nothing comes. Just air. Just the echo of what should be there.
The band stumbles, instinctively trying to follow me.
I lift a hand. “Sorry. Can we take it from the top?”
The words sound casual. Light. Like this happens all the time.
It doesn’t.
The musicians exchange glances. Quick. Quiet. No judgment in them. Just concern.
That’s worse.
I hate this version of myself. The one who can’t even keep it together long enough to get through a run-through. The one whose heartbreak leaks out.
I reach for the mic stand and feel my hand tremble. I curl my fingers tighter, willing them to stop.
“Sorry,” I say again, softer. “Just a rough morning.”
No one argues.
No one reassures me either.
Manny steps a little closer to the stage, eyes scanning my face instead of the room now. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He knows better.
The band resets. Someone clears their throat. A tech fiddles with a cable that doesn’t need fixing.
I glance toward the wing again before I can stop myself.
Empty.
That’s when the burn behind my eyes hits.
I turn away before anyone can see it. Adjust the mic. Breathe through my nose the way my vocal coach taught me years ago, back when control was the only thing I trusted.
This is fixable, I tell myself.
It’s just a day. Just a mood. Just exhaustion.
But the lie tastes thin.
This is what happens when your anchor disappears.
I call for a water break that I don’t really need.
Step offstage before my voice can betray me again.
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me, leaning my shoulder against the cool wall like it might hold me upright.
My phone buzzes.
Evelyn Sterling.
“Hi,” I say, keeping my voice low.
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Hi, Lila,” Evelyn says. Calm. Careful. The tone she uses when she’s already put pieces together and is deciding how gently to place them back in front of you. “I wanted to check in.”
My stomach drops anyway.
I twist the cap off the water bottle and take a sip I don’t need. My hands shake just enough to annoy me.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You aren’t,” Evelyn replies. Not unkind. Not accusatory. Just factual. “Your indicators dropped overnight. Across the board.”
I close my eyes.
“Rehearsal’s just… off,” I say. “It happens.”
“It doesn’t happen like this,” she says softly.
Silence stretches. The hum of the building fills it. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs. It sounds wrong.
Evelyn continues, “I hear your discussion turned into a fight. I’m calling because Cam’s team contacted me. We need to discuss next steps. They said you wanted to accelerate the dissolution of the contract.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because the answer is no. Because the answer has always been no.
But my chest aches in a way that makes it hard to breathe, and the image of Cam’s back as he walked out won’t leave my mind.
“Can we… not decide that yet?” I ask. “Can we hold off?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Are you okay?” Evelyn asks.
“I’m just tired,” I say.
“OK,” she says gently. “We don't have to decide on the contract right now.”
My knees weaken. I shift my weight fully against the wall, pressing my palm flat to my chest like I can physically hold myself together.
“Cam’s indicators dropped too,” Evelyn continues. “They've been dropping since yesterday.”
My throat tightens.
“He left,” I say.
The words slip out before I can brace them. Bare. Exposed.
I hadn’t planned to say it like that.
Evelyn doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
She waits.
Then, carefully, “Is that what you wanted?”
I stare at the floor. The scuffed tile. The shadow of my own shoes.
“I don’t know anymore,” I whisper.
But I do.
I know exactly how fear twisted my words. How pride sharpened them. How fast he took them at face value.
I press my forehead to the wall and breathe.
Evelyn doesn’t rush me.
She doesn’t soften the silence or fill it with strategy. She lets it sit between us, steady and patient, like she knows this is the moment that actually matters.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees drawn in, water bottle forgotten at my side.
“I didn’t want him to go,” I say finally. The words feel strange in my mouth. Too honest. Too late. “I wanted him to fight. I wanted him to stay.”
Evelyn exhales quietly. “But that’s not what you said.”
“No,” I whisper. “It isn’t.”
Silence again.
This one feels heavier. Like a door closing somewhere far away.
“I can put the dissolution on hold,” Evelyn says. “Temporarily. But I need to know what you want, Lila. Not what feels safe. What’s true.”
My throat tightens. My vision blurs.
“I think,” I swallow. “I think I lost him.”
My voice cracks.
Evelyn stays quiet.
And on the other side of the wall, the band starts rehearsing again without me.
I stay on the floor.
Cam is gone.
And I don’t know how to call him back.