Backstage sounded like a hive. Techs rushing. Mics checking. Someone from PR reminding me, again, which camera was live. The curtain was a thin line between chaos and performance, and I stood right behind it, palms flat against my thighs, breathing slow so no one could see the tremor underneath.
“You good?” Nia asked softly.
She stood at my left, head wrapped in burnt orange, gold hoops catching every stray light. Her hand found mine and squeezed once. Behind her, Nasir leaned against a lighting rig, hands in his pockets, eyes moving like he was casing the room for exits and threats at the same time.
“As good as I’m gonna be,” I said, exhaling.
“You’ll be fine,” Nia said, stepping closer to adjust the line of my blazer. “You were built for lights like these. I was just brought in for c
