Mark gives me the nod to head on stage.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my hands.
I’ve done this a thousand times.Stepped onto a stage, let the music take over, let it strip me down, pull me into something bigger than myself.
But tonight?
Tonight, I can’t get out of my fucking head.
The weight in my chest is pressing down, pressing in, pressing too goddamn much.
I adjust my guitar strap, but my fingers won’t stay steady.
My throat is already dry.
The crowd is chanting, their energy electric, but I feel like a live wire ready to snap.
I take a deep breath, try to force it down, force it away.
But something about tonight feels final.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
I step forward.
The lights slam into me.
As expected, the first song is muscle memory.
I sing.I play.I move.
But something’s off.
The words come out too tight.
The rhythm is there, but it’s shaky.
I adjust the mic, try to loosen my grip, but my hands are too stiff, too tense, too goddamn tight.
Somehow, the crowd still loves it—the front row dancing and singing along.
I let the music take over, let it drown out the noise in my head, let it bury every thought that isn’t a chord progression or a lyric slipping past my lips.
The songs should pull me under, bury me in the rhythm, drag me away from my own thoughts.That’s how it works.
That’s how it’s always worked.
But tonight?
Tonight, the music isn’t enough.
I wait for the music to calm me.
It doesn’t.
The second song starts, darker, heavier.
I play it too hard.