𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙊𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙐𝙥.

Showtime.

Backstage wasn't much of a stage at all.
It was a narrow hallway hidden behind a black curtain that smelled faintly of dust and old wood. Guitar cases leaned against the wall beside tangled extension cables, while someone from the previous act hurried past carrying a keyboard under one arm, thanking the sound technician over their shoulder before disappearing through the back door into the November night.

Beyond the curtain came the muffled hum of conversation and laughter.
Someone tested the microphone.
"Check... check... one, two..." And a burst of feedback screeched through the speakers.

West flinched. His palms were slick, so he wiped them on his jeans for what had to be the fifteenth time in the last ten minutes before gripping the neck of his guitar again, afraid the sweat would somehow seep into the strings. His foot hadn't stopped bouncing since they'd arrived.

Lia noticed first. She looked him up and down before letting out an amused breath.

"Would you loosen up?"

West blinked.

"You're standing like somebody zip-tied your spine."

Then she poked him between the shoulder blades. "I swear you're stiffer than a board right now."

"Nervous."

It was the only word he could manage.
His mouth had gone completely dry.

Lia folded her arms. "You better not screw us, Weston."

She nodded toward the curtain where the crowd waited just beyond. "We're live tonight."

West swallowed. As if he could forget.

A camera sat on a tripod in the middle of the coffee shop, its tiny red recording light glowing steadily. Eden's streamed every open mic to YouTube for friends, family and whoever happened to stumble across the channel.
There were people somewhere he'd never meet already waiting for them to walk onstage. He wished Lia hadn't reminded him.

Franny shot Lia a look. "Oh my God, would you stop?"

She stepped over to West and squeezed his shoulder. "He'll be fine."

Then, turning to him, she smiled. "You've got the jitters. That's normal. It'll disappear the second you hit the first note."

Lia snorted. "You have a lot of faith in him."

"I do."

"So do I."

Roy's voice slipped easily into the conversation as he emerged from the hallway leading to the audience, coffee cup in hand. His eyes landed on West immediately.

"You guys are gonna kill it." Then he looked directly at him.

"Especially you." He punctuated it with a wink.

West tried to smile back... He wasn't sure anything happened. His stomach had somehow climbed into his throat.

Roy laughed quietly to himself. "Jesus. You look like you're about to be publicly executed."

"Sure feels like it."

"You know what the best part is?"

West frowned. "What?"

"Ninety percent of those people out there couldn't tell if you hit the wrong note."

Lia gasped dramatically. "Don't tell him that!"

"I'm serious."

Roy shrugged. "They're here to have a good time, not critique your technique."

Franny nodded, Roy was right. "Exactly. They don't know what we practiced... They only know what we play."