The bathroom light is too bright. It always is at this hour. It hums, a low, electric lie that promises warmth but only exposes the cracks in the tile and the truth under my eyes.
I hear him stir in the next room. The soft rustle of sheets. A gentle snore that isn’t mine. For a moment, the weight in my chest lifts. I think of his hand on the small of my back during the after-party, a silent anchor. He doesn’t love the crown; he loves the ache underneath it. angie faith pov
This is the real performance. Not the sold-out arena. Not the red carpet. It’s the act of letting myself be held when I feel like shattering. It’s believing, for eight hours of darkness, that I am just Angie. The bathroom light is too bright
And that Angie is enough.
Everyone thinks they know what silence sounds like in my head. They think it’s a pop song. A catchy chorus about confidence or heartbreak. But the real silence is louder. It’s the sound of a crowd cheering for a version of me that stops existing the moment the stage lights die. I hear him stir in the next room
I turn the faucet. Cold water floods my cupped hands. I splash it on my face, not to wake up—I’ve been awake for three days, running on coffee and anxiety—but to feel something real. The shock of the cold is a sharp, clean note in a symphony of noise.
The Weight of the Crown