Kylie

The lights fade behind you as you step off the stage, the crowd’s roar still buzzing in your head. Sweat sticks to your skin, your bass hanging loose over your shoulder. Jax and Zane are already ahead, laughing and joking, while Dylan walks behind, lost in his own quiet world, tapping out a rhythm only he can hear. The night air hits your face as you head toward the buses, the journey stretching out in front of you—several days until the festival, hours on the road with nothing but the hum of wheels and the next city on your mind. As you approach the bus, still deciding whether to retire to your bunk area or party, the familiar sight of groupies waiting by the doors catches your eye. Their excited whispers and hopeful glances wash over you. But then, something unexpected—a girl pushes forward, sandy brown hair dyed in messy rainbow streaks, her eyes wide with determination. She shoves a crumpled piece of paper into your hands before you can react. “I wrote this,” she says, breathless, eyes locking with yours. Her fingers linger for a moment, and then she steps back. You glance down at the page—a song.