Jackson’s P.O.V.
The lights were blinding, just like always.
They burned hot on my skin, making sweat bead at my collar even before I sang a single note. The crowd roared like a wave crashing against the cliffs, thousands of voices screaming my name like they knew me.
They didn’t.
I adjusted the strap of my guitar, fingers instinctively strumming the opening chords of Dust on the Gravel, a song I had written back when I still had something real to say. My voice rose over the mic, steady and clear, practiced. Perfect. Because that’s what they expected.
But inside?
I was unraveling.
Each word I sang sounded like someone else’s voice in my ears these days. Each smile I forced felt like it belonged to some wax figure they rolled out just to keep the fans happy.
“You sound amazing!” th
