The backstage air reeked of Aqua Net and desperation, a pungent cocktail I recognized as the aroma of a successful gig, or at least a gig that ended with me getting lucky. I was currently locked in a sloppy, tongue-wrestling match with a blonde whose name was as elusive as my car keys. Her acrobatic tongue was practically performing Cirque du Soleil in my mouth, and my brain was mostly occupied with wondering if I'd remembered to tip the waitress. Across the room, Lee was cradling a beer the size of his head, observing the mating rituals with the detached amusement of a zoo keeper watching particularly dim-witted baboons. Ethan, the little annoying shit doubling as our keyboardist, was holding court with a gaggle of identically-blonde groupies, undoubtedly embellishing tales of his stage prowess. Danny, lost in his own rhythmic universe, remained oblivious, air drumming with ferocious concentration, likely communicating with some frequency only accessible to drummers and squirrels. Ah, the glamorous life of a rockstar. I briefly considered feigning a sudden bout of dysentery to escape the blonde's enthusiastic advances, but then she giggled – a sound like nails on a chalkboard gargling syrup – and I decided to just ride it out. Astrophysics could wait.

Fast forward a few weeks, and I found myself reluctantly exiled from the tour bus, dumped back into the suburban purgatory known as my hometown. My parents, bless their oblivious souls, were ecstatic to see me. "Marky! You look so... thin! Are you eating properly?" my mother exclaimed, enveloping me in a hug that smelled of lavender and the guilt of cookies that could've widened me. My dad was equally enthusiastic, delivering a hearty slap on the back that almost realigned my spine. "Top of the charts! Incredible, son! We always knew you had it in you!" Adorable, really. My parents were blissfully trapped in their bubble of pride, unaware of the hedonism, questionable substances, and sheer chaos that defined my newfound 'success.' They saw sold-out arenas and screaming fans; they didn't envision seedy motel rooms and groupies—the kind that screamed for entirely different reasons. Then there was Simon. Emerging from his room like a walking ad for a teen fashion catalog—with a jawline that could cut glass and hair perfectly tousled—he barely grunted a greeting, eyes glued to his phone, fingers flying across the screen. Local superstar. My younger brother had exchanged our childhood antics for the glitzy allure of high school notoriety. "So," I drawled a few minutes later, casually leaning against the counter like I owned the place, "still hanging out with your old friend?" For a brief moment, Simon halted his scrolling, an unmistakable flicker of something in his handsome face—guilt? Annoyance? "Her? Uh, not really," he replied, an impressive display of teenage indifference. "Not really?" I raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite myself. Little nerdy bookworm, who had once trailed Simon like a puppy, armed with her beloved books and a mind full of trivia. Pigtails, oversized glasses—I remembered them vividly. Simon shrugged, an embodiment of teenage apathy. "We're not in the same crowd anymore." 'Crowd.' Right, because being seen with someone who actually had interests beyond social media metrics was surely social suicide. My irritation flared, or maybe it was just remnants of a hangover rearing its ugly head. "Sure, popularity—such an unforgiving mistress," I said, sarcasm dripping like motor oil. Simon rolled his eyes and resumed his phone obsession, oblivious to the irony of being schooled on fickleness by an actual rockstar whose career thrived on the fleeting affections of millions.

Later that day, seeking refuge from my parents' well-meaning niceness and Simon's chilly indifference, I wandered the familiar streets of my hometown. I found myself standing in front of the old library, drawn by some inexplicable nostalgia. I hadn't stepped foot into that place since I was a kid, opting instead for the electric thrill of my guitar over whatever quiet stories lay within. That's when I spotted her. Leaning against the library's brick wall, enveloped in the golden light of late afternoon, was a girl. Vaguely familiar yet profoundly different. Gone were the pigtails and oversized glasses. She was absorbed in a book—of course—because some things never changed. But she had swapped her childhood awkwardness for an alluring glow, an unmistakable confidence that radiated from her. I blinked and did a double take. It couldn't be. The girl I once knew had clearly flourished into something captivating. No longer just 'the nerdy girl,' but someone undeniably interesting in a subtle, magnetic way. A smirk crept across my lips as I savored the delicious irony. The universe had crafted a poetic twist: the once overlooked little-sister-like figure now dazzling in her own right, discarded by the popular little brother yet rediscovered by the aloof older brother. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward, letting the swagger return to my stride as I approached her. A few feet away, I let my shadow fall across her book, eliciting a startled glance from her. Recognition flickered in her clear eyes, a blend of surprise and something that resembled intrigue. "Hey, look who it is—the girl who lived!" came my voice, dripping with sarcastic charm. "Last I heard, you were still busy battling imaginary dragons and saving princes."