The Past is Relentless
1448 Words
GWEN
Her concert is—of course—unbelievable.
I hate how good she is.
I hate how easily she commands every single soul in this arena.
I hate how the lights adore her, how the dancers orbit her, how her voice pours like honey warmed on a stove.
And I hate even more how my eyes refuse to leave her.
I spent years avoiding everything Sara Star had ever released, proud of that stubbornness. But now, watching her jump from heartbreak ballad to full Broadway vibrato to a dance break that makes my lungs jealous, I feel the tiniest crack in my resolve.
She’s phenomenal.
Infuriating, breathtakingly phenomenal.
Each costume glitters, hugging the features I used to memorize like scripture. The memories crash in on me—younger versions of us, stolen moments, the way she used to sing under her breath just to make me smile. I force the nostalgia down so hard my stomach aches.
Cool it, Gwen. She’s just a popstar. One who ruined your life. No big deal.
I lean forward on the skybox railing, trying to pretend I’m immune, when—
“She’s great, isn’t she,” Jason says behind me.
I jump so hard I wheeze. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
He huffs out something like a laugh and sits beside me, still stiff, still bruised from wrestling me into that limo yesterday. Up close, I see the crescents of my nails embedded in his forearm. Guilt twists in my gut.
“You of all people don’t need more hospital visits,” he deadpans.
“Oh, the big bad bodyguard has jokes,” I mock, nudging him.
“When they’re earned.”
And—for the first time—I see softness in him. The smallest smile. A man who isn’t only muscle and duty.
I return my gaze to the stage. Sara sits at a glossy black piano now, hair damp from sweat, voice floating through the arena like some invisible net wrapping around everyone in reach—including me.
“Jason,” I ask before I can stop myself. “How do you work with her?”
He straightens, business mode snapping back on like armor. “She… has a way about her.”
He exhales. “You know when you meet someone and can just tell they’re going to make it? She saw me when I was mall security. She walked up, told me I should work for her, and somehow… it made sense. She’s magnetic. Always has been.”
“I get that,” I admit, because I do. My teenage self practically worshiped at her feet. “But how do you work with her? Really?”
Jason considers. “Sometimes it feels good to be part of a meteor. Even if it burns.”
His jaw tenses. “I just wish she left less c*****e in her wake.”
His eyes cut to me.
Sharp.
Knowing.
I shrink into the couch cushions, wishing I could fold into the fabric.
Before I can respond, Sara steps away from the piano and struts toward the center of the stage. The crowd screams her name, a tidal wave of devotion.
Sara steps up to the mic, sweat still glittering along her hairline, chest heaving from the last song. The lights dim. The stadium quiets like someone pressed a hand over the world’s mouth.
And then—
“I wrote this next one for someone,” she says.
My stomach drops so hard I swear it hits the floor.
Oh god.
No.
No, please—not this.
“For someone who saw me before I saw myself.”
The air around me tightens instantly, like the walls of the skybox shrink inward. My breath stutters. I try to inhale, but the air feels thick, like syrup or smoke.
My pulse kicks into overdrive, pounding so fast it feels like it’s vibrating inside my throat. I sit forward, gripping the edge of the couch with both hands, knuckles bleaching white.
“Someone who taught me what honesty really looks like.”
The guitar tech hands her the instrument. The strap settles against her shoulder. And I know—before the first note, before the sound even exists—what she’s about to play.
My chest clamps.
My lungs forget their job.
The whole world narrows.
Jason moves beside me, turning sharply at my sudden stillness. “Gwen? Breathe. Hey—look at me.”
I can’t. Everything inside me is cracking open. I’m staring at her silhouette onstage, but it feels like I’m staring straight into a memory I’ve spent years burying.
A memory with teeth.
My breath shortens to frantic little gasps. My fingers go numb. My toes tingle. My vision flickers like a dying bulb.
“Someone I hurt… and never forgot.”
The words hit harder than the music ever could.
My heart slams against my ribs—too fast, too forceful, like it’s trying to break free. I drag in a breath but choke on it, the air slicing my throat raw. Panic rushes through me so violently I fold over my knees, palms pressed to the sides of my head, trying to squeeze myself back into control.
Jason’s hand hovers, not touching, scared to make it worse.
“Gwen, you’re having a panic attack. Stay with me. Breathe in—”
The first strum rings out.
That sound.
That damn sound.
It detonates something in me.
My ears ring so loudly I can’t hear the crowd. My limbs shake. My chest spasms. I drag in another breath—shallow, wheezing, useless. Every inhale feels like drowning, like the air refuses to reach my lungs.
The room swims in and out of focus. My heartbeat thunders against my skull, syncs horribly with the music below.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Why can’t I breathe?
My hands claw at my chest, like I can pry it open and force air inside. Nothing works. Nothing helps. My vision tunnels, black creeping in at the corners.
The couch tilts.
The lights smear.
Everything bends.
Jason’s voice is muffled, warped. “Gwen! Look at me—stay awake—!”
I try. I really try. But the song swells, and the memory slams into me full-force—the night everything was stolen, the night Jay broke, the night I lost myself.
The floor drops out beneath me.
The world dims, collapses, vanishes—
And I fall with it.
-----
I drift back into awareness soaking in warmth. A wet washcloth rests on my forehead, and sweat coats the back of my neck. My body trembles uncontrollably.
Jason is pacing across the room, hissing into his phone—“No, she had a panic attack, not a fainting spell, are you listening—no, don’t come up here—SARA—”
I blink at the stage below.
Empty.
Thank god.
A tiny, pathetic puff of relief escapes me.
“Oh good, you’re up,” Jason says, shoving his phone into his pocket the second I stir.
It immediately rings again.
And again.
And again.
He rejects each call without looking.
“You can get that,” I mutter. “I’m not a flight risk.”
He scoffs. “It’s just a cranky popstar.”
A smile twitches at my lips—old banter, muscle memory—but guilt flattens it immediately. Then dread creeps in, cold and familiar.
“What does our cranky popstar want?” I ask, though I already know.
“She heard you went down. She’s freaking out. She… wants you to get your own room.” He hesitates. “In her apartment.”
My body goes numb.
“As in—”
“As in she wants you with her tonight,” he confirms, irritation dripping from every word.
My stomach drops to the floor. I stare at the ceiling, wishing it would fall on me.
But I’m so, so tired of resisting. Tired of fighting a losing war.
“Well,” I whisper, defeated, “we can’t keep her waiting.”
Jason escorts me to the limo. He opens the door, all chivalry and apology, and I climb inside like someone boarding her own execution.
City lights blur through the window, neon streaks smearing across my reflection. I look ghostlike. Hollow. A girl who lost her choices somewhere between Los Angeles and here.
The moment the car stops, the door rips open.
And there she is.
Sara.
Sweaty, sparkling, frantic.
She grabs my wrist and pulls me behind her without a word.
And I let her.
Because resistance feels impossible now.
I feel weightless.
And not the romantic kind.
- Writer
