Behind the spotlight

The world adored Ethan Blake

He was the voice of a generation-platinum-selling albums, global tours, industry awards stacked on shelves. At twenty-three, Ethan had the face of a dream: striking brown eyes that seemed to hold secrets, soft black hair that curled just enough to tempt a stylist's fingers, a lean body molded from hours of choreography. His voice could stop hearts-a smoky tenor, rich with longing.

His fans-"Starlights"-numbered in the millions, across countries and continents. They followed his every move online, flooded his concerts with light sticks and banners. They waited outside hotels for a glimpse of their star, screamed his name on the streets.

Ethan loved his fans. He loved the stage. He loved singing.

But some days, most days-he couldn't breathe.

The morning started at 6:00 a.m., as always.

"Up," came his father's voice,Richard Blake, also his manger, sharp and commanding, through the suite's intercom. "

You've got three interviews this morning before rehearsal."

Ethan groaned softly, rolling over in his bed. The blackout curtains blocked the dawn light, but the clock blinked mercilessly. Six.

He hadn't fallen asleep until three. Insomnia was a constant these days, chased with the bitter aftertaste of sleeping pills that barely helped anymore.

His body ached. His throat was raw from the concert the night before, sold-out arena, fifty thousand fans, three hours of flawless performance. His smile had held until the last note.

He dragged himself upright. Another day.

The schedule was printed, as always, on a clipboard outside his door:

06:00 - Wake up

07:00 - Breakfast & grooming

08:30 - Radio interview 1 (KFM 97.1)

10:00 - Magazine shoot (Vogue Asia)

12:00 - Radio interview 2 (StarPop Live)

14:00 - Choreography rehearsal (4 hours)

19:00 - Variety talk show taping (Top10)

22:00 - Fan signing event (private, VIP)

00:00 - Return to suite

A small note in red ink, added in his father's familiar handwriting: No slacking, You need to smile for the cameras. New sponsor deal in negotiation.

Ethan stared at it for a long moment.

No time for himself. No pause. No breath.

By eight-thirty, he was seated in a glossy radio studio, headphones tight over his ears, a practiced grin on his face.

The DJ gushed into the mic: "We are LIVE with the one and only Ethan Blake! Ethan, welcome back! You've been breaking records this year, number one single for six weeks! Tell us, how do you feel?"

Ethan's voice came out smooth, auto-pilot. "I'm grateful. Really honored. I couldn't do it without my fans."

"That concert last night was insane! You looked amazing, where do you get the energy?"

Another smile. "I love performing. It gives me life." A lie.

"How do you handle your crazy schedule? You're everywhere these days!"

His smile tightens "Good management. And coffee." He winked.

The DJ chuckled, oblivious.

The interview blurred by in a stream of compliments, rehearsed answers, questions he'd heard a hundred times.

The Vogue shoot was next.

A cavernous studio. Racks of designer clothes. Flashbulbs snapping.

"Perfect, Ethan-hold that! Gorgeous!" the photographer called, sweat on his brow. "Let's try a moodier look now. More intensity. Chin down. Eyes sharp."

Ethan shifted angles, muscles sore, head pounding. The stylist fluffed his hair again between shots. Someone dabbed powder on his face. Another assistant handed him bottled water, which he barely sipped.

In the corner, his father scrolled his phone, watching.

By noon, Ethan smile was cracking.

The second radio interview dragged. Another DJ, more gushing praise. Same questions, same answers.

"You've got an international tour coming up-Europe, America! How do you prepare for that?"

Ethan's voice came out hoarse. "Lots of rehearsals. I'm excited."

Inside, his stomach churned.

Four straight hours of choreography followed. The rehearsal room pulsed with bass, sweat pooling under harsh fluorescent lights.

"Again," the choreographer barked. "Clean those turns. No sloppiness."

Ethan pushed through the routines, heart hammering, lungs burning. He was dizzy from dehydration. No break yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tall figure watching silently from the wall, new guy. His bodyguard.

His father had hired a new one yesterday. "You're too valuable now. Too many obsessed fans. We need tighter protection." No introduction, no choice.

The guy looked serious. He was in his late 20's-military posture, sharp gaze.

Ethan had barely registered his name: Nathan . Nathan Carter .

Not that it mattered. Like every guard before him, he'd keep distance, follow orders, never really see the person behind the star.

The variety show taping started at 7 p.m.

Bright stage lights. Loud music. Studio audience clapping on cue.

Ethan sat on the panel couch beside other celebrities, every move calculated, smiling, laughing, responding when cued.

The host turned to him. "Ethan! You've been so busy lately! How do you manage with no time off?"

Another polite smile. "I'm lucky. I love what I do."

The audience cheered. No one saw his fingers tightening around the mic.

It was nearly 11:00 p.m. when he arrived at the private VIP fan signing.

They were thirty fans, ultra-VIP, contest winners, sponsor guests-each granted a few precious minutes with their idol.

Ethan sat at a pristine table, silver pen in hand, eyes heavy. His voice was almost gone.

One by one, the fans approached, giddy, tearful, they where handing him gifts, pouring out admiration.

"You saved my life, Ethan ! I love you so so much!" one girl sobbed.

He forced another smile, signing her album. "Thank you. That means a lot."

Inside, something twisted painfully.

He couldn't even save himself.

Midnight. Back at the hotel.

The suite was opulent, two floors of glass and marble. The city lights glittered below.

Ethan dropped onto the sofa, head in hands. His throat felt raw. His limbs trembled.

Across the room, his father paced, phone pressed to his ear. "Yes, he'll make the morning shoot. No delays. We can't risk upsetting the sponsor." He ended the call, turning to Ethan . "Get some sleep. You've got four hours."

Ethan looked up, voice cracked. "I can't do this."

His father frowned. "Don't start. You're at the top now. You can't slow down."

"I'm tired," Ethan whispered.

"Everyone's tired," his father snapped. "You wanted this life. You don't get to quit."

Ethan closed his eyes, something inside him breaking.

When his father finally left the suite, still on calls, Ethan stood and walked blindly through the silent rooms.

His pulse thudded in his ears. His chest ached. His mind wouldn't stop spinning.

I can't do this anymore. I can't breathe.

Almost in a trance, he moved to the rooftop balcony-thirty-nine floors above the city. The door slid open with a faint hiss. Cool night air rushed in.

Ethan stepped out, bare feet on the stone tiles. The sky above was clear, scattered with stars.

He walked to the edge. The railing barely reached his waist.

His breath shook.

No more shows. No more cameras. No more pretending.

No more.

Slowly, he climbed onto the narrow ledge, toes curling against the steel.

Down below, traffic lights blinked faintly. A long, long fall.

Ethan swayed slightly, eyes closing.

Unseen, a lone figure had already noticed him.

Across the rooftop, half-hidden in the shadows, a man was leaning against a column, smoking a late-night cigarette. An assistant sound tech, done with a nearby shoot, killing time before going home.

He stared in shock as he watched the young star step onto the ledge.

Heart racing, he fumbled for his phone, hitting record without thinking.

Meanwhile, Nathan Carter moved silently through the suite.

He'd been uneasy all night, something in the singer's eyes, in the exhausted slump of his shoulders. The pressure, the isolation. He'd seen it before in soldiers on the edge.

Hearing the balcony door slide open, he followed.

When he reached the rooftop and saw the slim figure poised on the ledge, his blood ran cold.

"Ethan !" he called, voice firm.

No response.

The singer swayed again, arms loose at his sides.

Nathan moved fast, heart hammering.

"Ethan, step back. Please." His tone softened. "Talk to me."

Ethan's voice was a broken whisper: "I'm sorry."

Then he leaned forward slightly...

Nathan lunged.

In one swift motion, he wrapped an arm around Ethan's waist and hauled him backwards, both of them crashing onto the rooftop floor.

Ethan gasped, struggling weakly. "Let me go..."

"No," Nathan said, holding him tight. "You're okay. You're safe."

Ethan collapsed against him, sobbing.

Nathan's grip didn't loosen.

Above them, the phone camera kept rolling.

The headlines exploded the next morning:

"BREAKING: Pop Star Ethan Blake Saved From Suicide Attempt-Caught On Camera!"

"Shocking Rooftop Video Goes Viral-Fans In Tears"

"Industry Insiders Raise Concerns About Idol Pressures"

Within hours, the footage was everywhere, news channels, social media, global outlets.

Clips showed the moment, the young star on the ledge, the bodyguard's desperate save.

Hashtags trending:

#StayStrongEthan #YouAreLoved.

At the hotel, chaos erupted. Security doubled. Reporters camped outside. The management agency scrambled for damage control.

Inside his suite, Ethan sat curled in a blanket, trembling.

His phone buzzed endlessly, messages from friends, fellow artists, terrified fans.

He didn't look at them.

Across the room, Nathan stood quietly.

He said nothing. Just watched over him.

For once, Ethan didn't feel entirely alone.