Syn

“Syn! Syn! Syn!”

They always chant right before something goes wrong.

Phones are up. Screaming. Chanting my name like it’s a blessing instead of a warning. The bus crawls through downtown traffic, hazards flashing, my band inside probably panicking while I spread my arms wide like I’m about to fly—or fall.

Wind whips my hair into my face. Glitter sticks to the sweat on my skin. Someone below throws roses. Someone else throws a bra. I kick it off the roof without looking.

I laugh, loud and sharp, because if I stop laughing, I might feel it. The fear. The hollow ache under my ribs. The fact that I haven’t slept sober in three days and my hands won’t stop shaking.

“Relax!” I shout down at them. “I’ve got great balance!”

The bus jerks.

That’s when the sirens start.

Red and blue lights flood the street behind us, reflecting off storefront windows and the chrome lettering of my name painted ten feet tall along the side of the bus. POLICE VEHICLE IN PURSUIT flashes through my brain like a lyric I’ll never write.

“Syn!” someone yells. “Get down!”

I look back toward the roof hatch. It feels far away. Everything does lately.

An officer’s voice booms through a loudspeaker. “Get off the vehicle immediately!”

I crouch, fingers curling around the edge of the roof as the bus slows to a stop. The crowd surges forward, chanting louder, feeding on the chaos like it’s oxygen.

I stand again.

Because of course I do.

“I love you!” I scream, pointing at the crowd. “Don’t forget me!”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

That’s when hands grab my ankle.

Hard.

Someone’s climbing up after me. I stumble, lose my footing, and suddenly I’m not a rock star—I’m a girl slipping on metal, heart slamming against my ribs as the night tilts sideways.

I don’t fall.

I don’t fly either.

They drag me down.

The world becomes shouting and flashing lights and hands everywhere—pulling me off the bus, forcing my arms behind my back, metal biting into my wrists. Someone reads me my rights. Someone else shouts that I’m a danger to myself.

The crowd boos. Then cheers. Then boos again.

I’m shoved against the side of the bus, my name towering over me like a joke.

Syn.

The word looks ugly up close.

As they push me into the patrol car, my phone buzzes violently in my pocket. Over and over. My publicist. My manager. My lawyer. The clean-up crew already assembling.

The door slams shut.

Silence crashes down hard enough to hurt.

I stare at my reflection in the glass—smudged makeup, wild eyes, glitter everywhere—and for the first time, something inside me finally cracks.

This wasn’t a stunt.

This was a cry for help.

And everyone just clapped.