The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about the way Darian looked at the room last night. Not like he was performing for an audience, but like he was sharing something sacred with people who might understand it. The same way I feel about this venue—like it’s more than a business, more than just another place where people drink beer and listen to music.
That’s what scares me. It’s that watching him play reminded me of who I used to be before I decided that wanting things was too dangerous.
I pull out my phone and stare at the blank screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should look him up, see who he truly is. No one with that much talent just happened to walk into my venue.
I set the phone down and try to focus on the technical craft of what I witnessed instead of drowning in whatever emotional undertow it created. His guitar work was solid, his voice had that lived-in quality that can’t be faked. He understood song structure, knew how to build tension and release it. Most importantly, he treated the room with respect—not like a stepping stone to something bigger, but like a place where music mattered for its own sake.
This is the work of someone who understands music from the inside. Someone who knows that the best songs don’t just entertain—they excavate truth and present it in forms that make people feel less alone.
The kind of songwriter I used to be, before fear convinced me that wanting things was too dangerous.
My phone rings, jarring me back to the present. My mom’s name fills the screen, and I swipe to answer before the second ring. “Hey, you’re up late,” I say. “Is Lily sleeping?”
“She is. I wanted to talk to you about guitar lessons.”
I groan. “Mom, I can’t.”
“You can,” she says. “I’ll help. Benny came to camp today and showed the kids different guitars. You already know Lily plays yours all the time, but she was so absorbed. It was like a light went off for her.”
“Lovely.”
“It really is.”
If my mom only knew.
“Mrs. O can only teach her so much. You know this. You also know Benny.”
“I know.”
“I signed her up.”
“Of course you did.”
“It’ll be good for her, Rye. Good for both of you.”
“All right. Guitar lessons with Benny, it is.”
After we hang up, I head into the bathroom, turn on the water to fill the tub and dump a bunch of the bubble bath Lily bought me for Christmas into the rising water. I undress slowly and catch a glimpse of the bags under my eyes, laughing.
Someone like Darian wouldn’t give someone like me the time of day.
Nor should I give him any more of my attention, even if it’s just my thoughts because Darian is no different than Jason or any other musician out there.
darian
. . .
Dinner sits heavyin my stomach as I step out into the early evening air. Seven-thirty, and the city pulses with life around me. I need to walk, need to see this place I’m calling home instead of hunkering down in my apartment like I have been.
The streets buzz with energy. Buskers claim corners with guitar cases open for tips. An Elvis impersonator croons “Love Me Tender” outside a retro souvenir store while tourists snap photos. Two women argue loudly about the best hot chicken joint while their friend tries to mediate. Street musicians, artists, dreamers—all of them part of the fabric that makes this city what it is.
I find myself smiling for the first time in weeks. This is what I came here for. Not the industry connections or networking opportunities, but this. The reminder that music and life exists everywhere, not just in studios and venues.
My feet carry me down streets I’m still learning, past murals painted on brick walls and coffee shops with chalkboard signs advertising open mic nights. Every night, there’s something for someone looking to get ahead in this industry. The walk loosenssomething in my chest, makes breathing feel easier than it has since I left California.
I’m not planning to end up at The Songbird. But when I turn the corner and see the venue’s hand-painted sign, my steps falter.
The place should be dark—closed on Wednesdays—or at least from what I remember after memorizing the schedule in the event I wanted to come back. But there’s light coming from inside. Not harsh cleaning lights, but something softer. And I can make out a figure moving around.
