In the darkness of the bedroom, I slide back under the covers. The mattress dips. He rolls over instinctively, his arm finding my waist, pulling the static of the world away.
I lean over the marble sink, knuckles white against the cold stone. My reflection stares back—a girl I’ve known my whole life, yet one I keep surprising. My hair is down, no longer sculpted into the perfect, bouncy waves the camera loves. It’s just strands. Brown. Tangled. Human.
The Weight of the Crown
And that Angie is enough.
I turn the faucet. Cold water floods my cupped hands. I splash it on my face, not to wake up—I’ve been awake for three days, running on coffee and anxiety—but to feel something real. The shock of the cold is a sharp, clean note in a symphony of noise.
You are Angie Faith, I whisper to the dripping girl in the mirror. You are the dream.
Everyone thinks they know what silence sounds like in my head. They think it’s a pop song. A catchy chorus about confidence or heartbreak. But the real silence is louder. It’s the sound of a crowd cheering for a version of me that stops existing the moment the stage lights die.
I hear him stir in the next room. The soft rustle of sheets. A gentle snore that isn’t mine. For a moment, the weight in my chest lifts. I think of his hand on the small of my back during the after-party, a silent anchor. He doesn’t love the crown; he loves the ache underneath it.