Page 71 of When the Sky Falls

And me?

I film.

I post.

I breathe it in like it’s oxygen.

Even if he isn’t here, even if his absence sits heavier than I want to admit, I do the one thing I’ve always done:

I keep moving.

Because this isn’t just their tour.

It’s mine too.

The house lights drop.

A beat of silence.

Then—

BOOM.

The first hit of the kick drum detonates like a canon blast through the arena, and the crowd answers with a roar so loud it nearly lifts me off my feet. The stage explodes in a kaleidoscope of strobes and pyro, chasing each guitar riff like lightning across the night sky.

Benji stalks forward into the spotlight, hair flying, fingers dancing across strings like he’s conjuring demons and melodies all in one breath. Carson leans into the music, his bass slung low and steady, eyes closed like he’s already somewhere else—lost in the sound, the swell, the electricity.

Thorin commands center stage like he was built from it—shoulders broad, voice slicing through the air, rasp and heat wrapped in lyrics that make half the crowd scream and the other half weep.

And still, my gaze keeps flitting back to the rear of the stage.

To him.

Fletch is a force behind the drum kit. Raw power and precision, muscle and motion. His biceps flex with every crash, every roll, every punishing beat that ricochets through the stadium and straight into my sternum.

He’s in all black, the sleeves of his shirt torn off and his jaw clenched in a way that makes my stomach do a slow somersault. His dark hair clings to his temples, sweat-slicked and wild. And even in this chaos of light and sound, he looks like he’s carved from something mythic—rage and rhythm molded into flesh.

The lights hit him in flashes, a flicker of silver cymbals, a blaze of red across his face.

And I can’t stop watching him.

No matter how many times I remind myself this isn’t about him—not tonight, not anymore—I still look.

When Thorin swings his mic out and bellows, “NEW YORK CITY—ARE YOU READY FOR US?” and the crowd erupts like a volcano… I don’t look at Thorin.

I look at Fletch.

And I swear, for half a heartbeat, he looks at me too.

The briefest flick of his eyes over the cymbal line. Barely there. Gone before I can even be sure it happened.

But it hits like a sucker punch.

I focus the camera on him without even thinking, the lens capturing every piston-driven movement, every twist of his torso, the fire in his expression as he builds the bridge of the song like he’s trying to tear something open inside himself and pour it out through the snare.

He’s not smiling—not the usual rockstar grin he throws out like confetti. Not tonight. He looks like he’s drumming to survive. Like if he stops, the whole damn world might fall apart.

And maybe mine with it.