Kaelen's POV
The last of the applause still echoes faintly through the glass halls when I reach for the exit. My hand brushes the cold brass handle, relief already forming in my chest—until I hear her voice behind me.
“Kaelen.”
I stop. Of course she’d call me. I draw a quiet breath, fix the neutral expression I’ve mastered, and turn. Celestine stands beneath the stage lights, violin still cradled in her arm, cheeks flushed from performance. There’s a sheen to her—poised, radiant, every inch the star the Conservatory adores. For a moment, I almost wish I could feel what I used to when I looked at her.
“Well?” she prompts, smiling, expectant.
“It was beautiful,” I tell her. The lie slides easily off my tongue, practiced as a reflex.
The truth is I barely heard her play. My thoughts had
