The lights dim, and the room seems to draw inward, like it’s holding its breath. Molly feels it immediately in the way Summer’s hand tightens around hers. Or maybe it’s Molly tightening first. Their fingers are laced together, knuckles pressed white, neither of them willing to let go. Onstage, the presenter begins reading the nominees for Best New Artist. Each name is followed by applause that sounds careful, restrained, as if the audience is afraid to give too much to the wrong person. Molly keeps her eyes forward. If she looks at Summer now, she might cry, and this isn’t a place for that. Not under crystal lights and roaming cameras and an industry that loves you only as long as you keep shining. Instead, she focuses on the screen as faces and album covers flicker past.
Summer deserves this. The thought settles heavy in Molly’s chest. She deserves it in a way that feels inevitable. Molly has known talented people. Loved talented people. Loud ones, confident ones, people who confuse ambition with artistry. Summer has never that. Her brilliance is quieter, earned the hard way, carved out of nights spent rewriting lyrics until they hurt. Loving Summer has taught Molly that real talent doesn’t demand attention. It waits, patient, until the world catches up.
The presenter clears their throat. “And the award for Best New Artist goes to-”
The pause stretches. Cameras sweep the crowd. Molly’s heartbeat roars in her ears.
“-Summer North.”
For a single, fragile second, nothing happens.
Then the room explodes.
Applause crashes in from all sides, sudden and overwhelming. Someone behind them gasps. The screen flashes Summer’s name in bold, undeniable letters. Molly turns just in time to see Summer’s reaction. Her own heart practically splitting down the middle as it gre from the sight alone. Molly leans in, grounding her with touch alone, pressing her forehead briefly to Summer’s temple. “You did it,” she murmurs, low and steady. “I'm so fucking proud of you," She whispered as tears flooded her eyes.
