The air had the sweet aroma of fresh flowers and the faint scent of hairspray as the bustling backstage of the grand theater hummed with excitement. Stagehands wearing black t-shirts and headsets scurried about, their voices a murmur of urgent whispers that seemed to echo against the velvet curtains. Each person moved with the grace of a ballet dancer, dodging the cords that snaked across the floor like a mechanical serpent.
Dane Vu, a young singer on the brink of stardom, sat in his dressing room, surrounded by racks of clothes that seemed to have been plucked from a celebrity's dream closet. He picked up a crisp, white shirt and held it against his chest, scrutinizing his reflection in the mirror. The material felt cool, a stark contrast to the warmth that seemed to radiate from the spotlights outside his door. His heart thumped in his chest like a bass drum, reminding him that in a few hours, he'd be sharing the stage with Michael Bublé, the legend whose music had inspired him to pursue his own career.
He took a deep breath and began his vocal warm-ups, his voice barely a murmur as he hummed through his scales. He knew the acoustics of the theater were excellent, that any sound could travel through the walls, and he didn't want to risk the other performers hearing his nerves. The notes danced in the air, fluttering around him like shy butterflies before gently landing on his tongue. His eyes closed, Dane focused on the vibrations in his throat, the way the sounds filled the small space, and the quiet reassurance they brought.
The dressing room door cracked open, and a head peeked in. It was one of the backup singers for Bublé's set, her hair piled high and her smile even brighter. "Hey, you okay in here?" she asked.
Dane swallowed hard. "Yeah, just warming up."
She stepped in and leaned against the wall. "You sound like an angel whispering," she said with a chuckle. "Don't worry, you've got this. I've heard you before, and you're going to blow everyone away."
Her kind words did little to ease the tightness in his chest, but he managed a nod. "Thanks," he murmured. He knew she meant well, but the pressure was immense. This was his big break, and he couldn't afford to mess it up.
The theater's walls seemed to close in around him as he continued to warm up, the muffled sounds of the orchestra tuning up outside his sanctuary. He thought of the audience, dressed in their finest, waiting for the show to begin. Their expectations were high, and he knew that a single misstep could send them into the arms of the next viral sensation. He took another deep breath, letting it out slowly as he whispered the words to the song he'd be singing.
As the minutes ticked by, Dane's nerves grew into a crescendo of doubt. His soft voice, which had once been his pride, now felt like a fragile reed in a hurricane of powerful vocalists. He could hear the rich, robust tones of the other singers echoing down the corridor, and he couldn't help but feel out of place. He took a sip from a bottle of room-temperature water, rolling it over his tongue before letting it slide down his throat, soothing the tension that had begun to coil there. He resumed his warm-ups, his voice a delicate thread that weaved through the air, blending with the symphony of preparation happening outside.
The door opened again, this time more forcefully, and in strode Michael Bublé's manager, a stern-faced man with a clipboard and an aura of urgency. "Dane, we need you on stage in five. Are you ready?" he asked.
Dane's hands trembled slightly as he set down the water bottle. "Ready," he lied, his voice a mere breath. The manager nodded curtly and disappeared into the hallway, leaving Dane alone with his thoughts. He closed his eyes and took a moment to gather his composure, focusing on the warmth that his vocal exercises had kindled within him. He felt the gentle vibrations in his chest, the soft buzz of his vocal cords, and the steady beat of his heart.
