After the applause

Broken strings

The final chords of the day's rehearsal still echoed in Camila's mind as she walked into the small, dimly lit room that had become her sanctuary. She set her guitar down gently on the stand, the strings still warm from her fingers, and slumped onto the chair in front of the desk. Her hands hovered over a blank sheet of paper, but the lyrics weren't flowing as easily as they had before.

The events of the past few weeks felt like they were building to something—something that could break her if she wasn't careful. Miley's behavior, subtle at first, had turned into an outright barrage. But Camila didn't want to focus on that tonight. She just needed to write, to lose herself in the music the way she always did.

She closed her eyes and let the soft hum of the room settle around her. The world outside seemed distant for the first time in a long while. It was just her and the music.

As her fingers strummed the first few notes, the door creaked open. Camila didn't look up. She had assumed it was just one of the crew coming in to double-check something before the show. But then she heard that voice—the one she knew all too well.

"Well, well. All alone, huh?"

Camila froze mid-strum, her fingers momentarily tangling in the strings. She looked up to see Miley standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, a mocking smile playing on her lips.

Miley's gaze flicked over the guitar, the paper on the desk, and then back to Camila, assessing her like a predator circling its prey. The tension that had been building in Camila for days now seemed to manifest in the air between them, thick and heavy.

"Can I help you with something?" Camila asked, trying to keep her voice steady. She didn't want to give Miley the satisfaction of seeing how rattled she was.

Miley didn't move, just stood there in the doorway, arms crossed. "I didn't think you were the type to be so... sentimental," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "Writing your little songs alone in a room, huh? Seems a bit childish."

Camila's jaw clenched. "You don't know anything about me, Miley."

Miley chuckled, stepping closer, her eyes gleaming with something darker now. "Oh, I know more than you think. I see how you've been trying to make everyone like you. You're always trying to prove something, huh?"

Camila stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I'm not trying to prove anything to you," she shot back, her voice rising slightly. "I don't need your approval."

Miley took a step forward, her posture aggressive. "Then why does it seem like you're so damn scared of me? Why does it seem like everything I do gets to you?"

Camila could feel the heat rising in her chest, her emotions threatening to spill over. She stepped back, trying to create some space between them, but Miley didn't let up.

"Don't pretend you don't see it. You're the weak link, Camila. You'll never measure up to the rest of us. You're just a little girl playing in a grown-up world," Miley spat, her voice venomous.

Camila's breath caught in her throat, a lump forming at the back of her mouth. She knew this was exactly what Miley wanted—she wanted to see her break, to see her crumble under the pressure.

But as the words hit her, it felt like everything inside her was shaking. What if Miley was right? What if she didn't belong? What if all of this—this tour, the band, the attention—was just a big mistake?

"Stop," Camila whispered, the words barely escaping her lips. "Please, just stop."

Miley smirked, taking another step closer. "Why? You don't think I'm right? You don't think I know exactly what I'm talking about?"