Hope steps to the mic, makes a small adjustment, then starts to play.
The first chord spreads through the room and hovers, full and clear in a way I’ve never heard from her before. At Pike Place, I have to catch pieces of her between footsteps, voices, and the constant movement of people coming and going. Here, she’s the focus.
She doesn’t look overwhelmed. Instead, she settles into it. I bet she’s been working toward this exact moment longer than anyone realizes. There’s no hesitation in the way she moves through the first verse. She finds it immediately and builds from there.
Around us, conversations fade out mid-sentence. People turn, shift closer, and stop moving altogether. It happens gradually, then all at once, until every bit of attention lands on her.
I’ve watched her for weeks and thought I understood how talented she was. I had no idea.
Up there, nothing stands in her way. The lights don’t swallow her, they frame her. Hope’s voice carries every detail, every shift, every edge I missed before. It fills more space than I thought possible. By the time she lifts into the chorus, the crowd is moving in sync.
Watching her take hold of a room, it’s impossible to ignore what’s right in front of me. This is where she belongs. Not fighting for scraps of attention in a crowded market.
Here.
On a stage built for her.
When she finishes her last song, silence hangs for half a breath. Then the room breaks. Cheers slam forward. Whistles cut through. People shout her name.
Hope. Hope. Hope.
Jamie nudges me. “Alright. Your turn.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Go talk to her.”
I look over. She’s everywhere at once. Laughing, reaching, shifting between people without slowing down. A bottle turns in her hand, a glass placed in front of someone, a quick reply tossed over her shoulder before she pivots again. No one holds her attention for long, she’s too busy.
Then a coworker lifts her clean off the floor and whirls her around. She laughs, light, unbothered, and the second her feet touch down she’s back in motion, sliding straight into the next order.
Gulping my fear down, I move toward the bar.
Space tightens until there’s barely room to stand without brushing someone. I edge into a narrow gap and stop a few feet from the counter where Hope could hear me if I had anything worth saying.
I freeze. Every second fills before it opens. A question gets answered. A drink goes out. Another voice pulls her attention away. It keeps moving, faster than I can keep up.
A sentence forms. Falls apart. I try again. Same result. Anything I say is wrong before it leaves my mouth.
Her gaze sweeps past me, brief and unfocused, already moving on.
Fuck.
I shift back and let someone else step into the space I couldn’t.
Jamie exhales behind me. “Dude…”
I shake my head once. Not now. He needs to shut the fuck up. I’m too humiliated.
Daniel doesn’t push. His hand grips my shoulder, steady, grounding. “We can come back some other time.”
I nod, even though the idea lands flat. For me, the noise presses in, heavier now, less electric. More overwhelming. I’ve got to get outta here. Now. Ducking through the crowd, I lose my friends and call an Uber.
Outside, the cold air is a harsh slap, cutting through the buzz. The ride home is a blur. By the time I’m back at my condo, the silence is deafening.
For a long while, I sit on the edge of my bed, shoes still on, jacket half-zipped, staring at nothing. Her voice echoes in my head. I think about the two versions of her. Both real.
Both unreachable.
