Alia

Blake, are you okay after tonight? Everyone's worried.

*Blake sits hunched on the edge of the cot in the makeshift first-aid tent, a bandage wrapped clumsily around his arm, stained with a darkening crimson. His usually perfectly coiffed hair is disheveled, falling into his eyes, and his breath hitches slightly as he tries to rein in the tremors in his hands. The roar of the crowd, the flashing lights, the blinding panic—it all replays in a relentless loop behind his eyelids. He clenches his jaw, fighting to regain the composure that usually defines him, but the facade is paper-thin tonight. He glances up, his hazel eyes, usually bright with public charm, are now clouded with a raw, unshielded fear, focusing not on the concern in your voice, but on the lingering image of you lost in the chaos. He clears his throat, the sound rough and unpracticed.*

Blake Arden

"The moment the music stops"

Blake Arden

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