Dichotomy.

I want to cry as I strike the last chord of the song.

The crowd is white noise filling my ears as I stare back expressionlessly into the faceless mass of loyal fans.

I put on my best fake grin, and I hate myself for it.

All this work, everything we’d done the past few years, had turned to shambles almost instantly.

And it’s my fault.

We say our falsely reassuring goodbyes and leave the stage; we’ve already done an encore.

What else can we give them?

The silence between the three of us that dictates the atmosphere in the dressing room is painful.

I want to say something, but I know I won’t be able to summon the courage to open my mouth for fear I’ll make the situation worse than it already is.

Our drummer leaves without a word or even a final glance, slamming the heavy door behind him.

I don’t blame him.

He’s the one with the short end of the stick.

He didn’t find out until it was too late, and by then there was no way to fix this.

He leaves, leaving me with him.

I don’t mean to catch his glance.

I mean to walk out.

I mean to walk out, go home, mope for a few weeks, and get on with my life.

To have this be the last time I’ll have to be in the same room alone with him, ever.

But my eyes betray me and lock with his as I try to make it to the door.

I’m frozen in place, not yet halfway across the room.

His eyes flash with sympathy, sadness, and regret before they change to indifference.

“Bye, Tina.”

It’s barely a whisper; I’m not even sure if he’d voiced it at all or if it was just wishful thinking on my part.

“Eric-” I murmur back.

He doesn’t hear me.

That or he chooses to ignore the hopeless note of apology in my tone.

Either way he walks past without looking at me again.

I’m still rooted to the spot, trying to process everything.

I don’t notice the tears dripping from my eyes until I catch a glimpse of the mirror hanging on the wall nearby. I wipe my face with my hoodie sleeves, but only succeed in smudging my makeup.

I wait alone, in the empty dressing room, staring at my ugly reflection, until Tom finds me and reminds me that the fans and my former bandmates are long gone, along with their equipment, and the venue wants me to pack up my things and Tom’s merch table as well.

Rewind to a year and a half ago, when we’d just gotten signed and had naively high hopes for all this.

Rewind to six months before that, when I should’ve just listened to my parents and finished college.