The Spotlight

Chapter 25

I trace my finger along the rough edge of the backstage chair, counting seconds like heartbeats. The doctor should be here any minute, and everything—my place in the competition, weeks of work, tonight's performance—dangles from the precipice of his medical opinion. I swallow experimentally, searching for pain. The antibiotics have helped, but will it be enough? Down the corridor, a door opens, and I straighten, pulse-quickening with the possibility of Gary.

Instead, it's just a production assistant rushing past without a glance my way. I deflate slightly, returning to my nervous ritual of checking the time—only two minutes since I last looked, though it feels like twenty.

Yesterday's absence stretches between Gary and me like an unexpected valley. His morning text had been promising:

Should be able to stop by around noon. How is your throat today?

But by afternoon, disappointment arrived instead:

I'm stuck in meetings that are running late, so I won't be able to come by today. I'm sorry, but I'll see you tomorrow morning. Make sure you sleep well tonight. x

I picture him in some glossy boardroom, pretending to focus on whatever meeting kept him away while thinking of me as he typed that message. The image offers small comfort against the crushing stakes of today.

If the doctor doesn't clear me to perform, I'm automatically eliminated. No second chances, no saving grace—just a sympathetic exit interview and a cab ride home to my empty flat. Everything I've fought for would vanish before I even got to sing again. The thought makes my stomach twist into complicated knots that no amount of slow breathing can untangle.

My hand drifts to my throat, pressing gently against skin that no longer feels foreign. The swelling has subsided considerably, and the razorblade sensation when swallowing has dulled to a memory rather than an ongoing torment. I should be able to speak today—perhaps not perfectly, but enough to convince the doctor I can perform. Singing, however, remains the real question mark hovering over my future.

The antibiotics have been working their quiet magic, and three full days of complete vocal rest should count for something. I've been religious about my medication schedule, drinking gallons of honey-lemon tea, and sleeping propped up on pillows to reduce inflammation. The logical part of my brain knows I've done everything possible to heal, but anxiety isn't logical—it's a persistent whisper building to a shout, cycling through worst-case scenarios on repeat.

What if my voice cracks mid-performance? What if I reach for a note and nothing emerges but silence? What if the doctor takes one look at my throat and shakes his head with that particular brand of medical regret? These thoughts circle like vultures, picking at my confidence until it's stripped to the bone, raw and exposed.

I haven't spoken a single word aloud since the doctor ordered vocal rest. Not one. The silence has been both torture and revelation—I've never realized how much I fill empty spaces with sound until forced into quietude. The past days have been an exercise in alternative communication: text messages, handwritten notes, exaggerated facial expressions, and elaborate hand gestures that sometimes made Gary laugh so hard he had to sit down, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made my heart flip traitorously in my chest.

But now comes the moment of truth. Soon I'll have to produce actual sound, and the prospect terrifies me more than any high-stakes performance. Not knowing what will emerge when I finally open my mouth feels like standing at the edge of a cliff in complete darkness, uncertain if my next step leads to solid ground or free fall.

The door at the far end of the corridor swings open again, and this time, it's him.

Gary walks toward me with purposeful strides, the doctor following a few steps behind. Even from a distance, I can read the tension in Gary's shoulders, the careful neutrality of his expression that tells me he's trying not to telegraph any emotion—good or bad. He's dressed in dark jeans and a simple black jumper that makes his eyes appear even greener in the unforgiving fluorescent light. My heart performs an elaborate gymnastics routine in my chest, somersaulting with both hope and terror.