The mic is warm under my fingers. The room smells like cables and coffee and the faint sharpness of stage fog.
The song ends.
Silence follows.
Not the good kind. Not the satisfied kind.
The kind where everyone is pretending not to notice what’s missing.
And I’m standing in the middle of my own life, realizing I can’t feel my way back into it.
I try again.
I make it halfway through the second chorus before my focus slips.
The lyric disappears mid-line, like someone erased it. I open my mouth and nothing comes. Just air. Just the echo of what should be there.
The band stumbles, instinctively trying to follow me.
I lift a hand. “Sorry. Can we take it from the top?”
The words sound casual. Light. Like this happens all the time.
It doesn’t.
The musicians exchange glances. Quick. Quiet. No judgment in them. Just concern.
That’s worse.
I hate this version of myself. The one who can’t even keep it together long enough to get through a run-through. The one whose heartbreak leaks out.
I reach for the mic stand and feel my hand tremble. I curl my fingers tighter, willing them to stop.
“Sorry,” I say again, softer. “Just a rough morning.”
No one argues.
No one reassures me either.
Manny steps a little closer to the stage, eyes scanning my face instead of the room now. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He knows better.
The band resets. Someone clears their throat. A tech fiddles with a cable that doesn’t need fixing.
I glance toward the wing again before I can stop myself.
Empty.
That’s when the burn behind my eyes hits.
I turn away before anyone can see it. Adjust the mic. Breathe through my nose the way my vocal coach taught me years ago, back when control was the only thing I trusted.
This is fixable, I tell myself.
It’s just a day. Just a mood. Just exhaustion.
But the lie tastes thin.
This is what happens when your anchor disappears.
