Because he watched tonight’s round like someone who understood what it costs to play original music for strangers. Like someone who knows what it feels like to offer your heart through melody and hope it doesn’t get torn apart.
I’ve spent three years protecting this space, making sure musicians feel safe enough to take real risks. But watching him absorb everything with that careful attention made me wonder what it would cost to be on the other side. To be the one offering something fragile instead of the one making sure others feel safe to do it.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
I reach my car and pause, looking back at The Songbird’s dark windows. Thursday feels too far away and too soon at the same time. Part of me wants to cancel his slot, claim it was a mistake, protect myself from whatever energy he’ll bring.
But the bigger part of me—the part that watched him sign up like he was taking a leap—wants to see what happens when someone who listens carefully gets the chance to be heard.
My phone buzzes. Text from Mom:Lily’s asleep.
I text back thanks and get in the car, cranking the engine. The drive home takes fifteen minutes through empty streetslined with houses full of musicians and artists and dreamers who moved here because they believe music can change everything.
Most nights, that belief feels like enough. Tonight, it feels like the first chord of a song I don’t know how to finish.
I drive slowly, letting traffic lights wash over me. Tomorrow I’ll wake up early for breakfast with Lily before her rehearsal. I’ll spend the afternoon reviewing next week’s lineup, returning calls from musicians wanting to book shows. I’ll prepare for another evening of protecting the space where songs come to life.
But Thursday will come. And with it, the chance to find out if the stranger who watched tonight’s round with such attention has something worth saying. If the instinct that made me watch him sign up was musical intuition or something else entirely.
Either way, I’ll find out soon enough.
The thought should make me nervous. Instead, as I pull into my driveway, something builds in my chest that might be anticipation.
Just enough to matter.
darian
. . .
I’m tuningthe same string for the fourth time when my hands start shaking.
Tonight.
Eight o’clock.
The Songbird’s songwriter round.
The Martin sits across my lap in the apartment’s single chair, what’s left of the sunlight streams through my windows, leaving a golden glow on the threadbare carpet. I’ve been playing these three songs for a week straight, polishing them until they gleam. Except, now I’m not so sure. Every chord progression sounds predictable, every lyric feels forced.
Of course, just in time for my performance. I can feel myself choking already.
The alarm on my phone chimes. I tap the screen to make it stop and sigh heavily, hoping to exercise the demons that fester in my mind. This band breakup has made me feel like a failure, like I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for a morsel of semblance in a life I used to love. Part of me wants to be on top or at least near the top, taking the charts by storm, but the thought of facing the same tired bullshit questions about theband makes me want to retreat. How long until the dust settles? Until everything blows over and I don’t have to hear about Van and his new band?
Those thoughts plague me and I consider not showing up or cancelling, and I’m about to do it when a text from my brother-in-law comes through.
Levi: Zara didn’t want to bother you, but she wants you to know she’s proud of you. I am as well. I look forward to making some music with you, man.
If that wasn’t enough to get me moving, the picture he sends of Poppy is. My niece looks exactly like Zara, just cuter.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
After packing the Martin up, I grab my keys, guitar case and step out into the hallway. Downstairs, I hear the private door to Rattlesnake Guitars open. At the top of the staircase, I spot Benny at the bottom, looking up.
“Big night?” He motions toward my case. I like that he’s playing coy, but even I know there isn’t a single thing that happens in town that Benny doesn’t know about.
“First time at The Songbird.” The words taste foreign on my tongue. “Songwriter’s round tonight.”
“You seem nervous?”
