"Buenas noches, Barcelona!"she calls out, throwing her arms wide, and the crowd roars back.
"I have to tell you, I love the big crowds, the festivals, the massive stages.But these intimate shows?"She pauses, letting her gaze sweep across the faces before us."These will forever be my favorite."
She looks back at me, and I know what's coming.We've done this song every night for six weeks, but somehow it never gets easier.
"This next song was written by my right hand man over here," she continues, gesturing toward me with genuine affection, "about what it means to try to move on when your heart belongs somewhere—or to someone—else.And if you wouldn’t mind, we’d love to open with it, ¿Qué piensan, mis amores?"
The crowd goes mad, they always do.
You’d think I’d be used to people singing my songs back to me by now.But it feels new, every time.The opening chords come naturally now, muscle memory taking over where my brain wants to freeze.
The melody is simple, haunting, and when Luiza starts singing the words I wrote in a hotel room in Valencia at three in the morning, I have to focus on my fingerpicking to keep from getting lost in them.
Some people let it go,
Some people just move on,
But how do you start anew,
When your heart’s already gone?
I’m trying to build tomorrow,
From the fragments that remain,
But every road I walk down
Leads me back again.
The rest of the set flows like water.Luiza's voice weaves through my guitar lines like they were made for each other, and for almost two hours, I forget about everything except the music.This is the only time my brain actually shuts up, the only time the constant noise of recovery and regret and what-if fades into something manageable.
When we finish the last song, there's no one left seated.Luiza grabs my hand, pulling me forward so the crowd can get a good look at us.
The applause washes over us, and I remember why I do this.Not for the attention or the girls or the party afterwards, but for this—the moment when music connects people, when strangers become part of something bigger than themselves.
Backstage, Luiza is buzzing with post-show energy, already planning, pacing the small space like a caged animal.
"Last leg of the Spanish tour, and that was fucking incredible!You were incredible.How can you not love this feeling?"She says, stripping off her sweaty shirt not minding the fact that she’s walking around half naked.
Still I look away as she grabs a fresh one from her bag.
"We have to celebrate!"
"Actually, I think I'm gonna head home," I tell her, already packing up my guitar."Early morning tomorrow."
"Bullshit."She spins around to face me, hands on her hips.
"You don't have any plans tomorrow, and I know you'll just go home and be sad or read or whatever it is you do in that monastery you call a life."
She's not wrong, so I can't help but laugh.
I'll probably go back to the small apartment we're sharing with the two other musicians—Eric, the bassist, and Miguel, the drummer—read until I can't keep my eyes open, then lie awake thinking about everything I'm trying not to think about.
"Please?"She gives me those puppy dog eyes that probably get her whatever she wants from most people, clasping her hands together in mock prayer.
"One drink.One hour.We just finished our first nationwide fucking tour, Nate!How many times do you get to say that?"
And because she's been nothing but good to me these past few months, I agree.
