When Astra Fell

I leaned back on the tour bus seat, the hum of the road beneath me barely registering as my mind drifted—back to when I was thirteen. My father had bought me a cheap “Sing It” karaoke machine for my birthday. I remember hugging it like it was gold. People always told me I had a gift, something special in my voice. But I didn’t believe them. Not really. Not back then. A year later, my mom died suddenly. And something inside my dad shattered. He stopped caring—for anything, including me. I had to grow up fast, take care of the both of us. While my friends were worried about school dances and summer crushes, I was figuring out how to keep the lights on. By fifteen, I was singing at grocery stores, sidewalk sales, and tiny cafés—anywhere that would pay me a few bucks. Meanwhile, my father started drinking. And then… he started hitting. I stayed. I endured. Because as twisted as it sounds, I didn’t want to lose what little I had left of him. Then came Don. He said he could make me a star. And he did. He had receipts, connections, and a smooth way with words. I was desperate, so I went with him. By eighteen, I was Astra Vox—headlining shows, topping charts, walking red carpets. America’s new obsession with a voice like velvet and a past wrapped in barbed wire. But fame doesn’t erase trauma. It just gives you better clothes to hide it in. “We're in Ohio,” someone called. I sighed and stood up, making my way to the back of the bus. Stripping down to my underwear and bra, I dug through my suitcase for something to wear before tonight’s soundcheck. That’s when Don showed up. Again. He wrapped his arms around me without warning. “Jesus, Don! Can’t I get dressed alone for once?” I shoved him off, scowling. He sighed, grabbed my arm, and tried to kiss me. My body froze, then reacted fast—I pushed him away hard and socked him in the mouth. “Don’t touch me,” I snarled. My voice shook. He muttered something and stormed out. I took a breath, then grabbed a pink dress—Don's idea, of course—and pulled it on with a leather jacket, pink and black zippered bracelets, a heart-and-key necklace, and matching Uggs. I looked like a damn bubblegum commercial. Not me. In the bathroom mirror, I fixed my hair and makeup until I felt like Astra Vox again—the polished version of a girl who never had a real childhood. But underneath the glam was still Lyric Skye Blake, the girl who clawed her way out of pain. The venue was quiet when I stepped off the bus and into the arena. Empty chairs. Spotlights half-dimmed. My kind of peace. I spotted a man near the stage and walked over, tapping his shoulder. “Excuse me, could you show me wher—” He turned around. Brown eyes. Tall. Solid. Calm and collected, with a stillness that made something in my chest flip. I stumbled over my words. “Uh—I—I’m, uh—” I stuttered like an i***t. He laughed, low and soft. God, even his laugh was cute. “I’m Damon,” he said, offering his hand. “Damon Cross.” I blushed. “Astra Vox,” I replied automatically. Then I blinked. “I mean—Lyric. Lyric Skye Blake,” I added quickly, feeling heat rush to my face. He glanced at my outfit. “You look... very pink.” I groaned and looked down. “Ugh. I hate pink.” He raised an eyebrow. “Then why wear it?” I shrugged. “Don says it makes me look ‘marketable.’ I’d rather be in purple. Or blue. But he doesn’t care what I want.” Damon nodded, like he understood. Then he reached for my hand and kissed it—like something out of a movie. My brain short-circuited. “Sorry,” I blurted. “Y-you’re just... really cute.” He chuckled again. “Am not.” “YES. Yes, you are!” I said, a little too loud. He smiled wider. And just like that, something inside me softened. For the first time in a long time... I felt safe.