When I was a kid, my parents signed me up for softball, science fairs, and camp to bring me out of my shell. Other kids seemed to effortlessly mesh. I showed up, followed the rules, and counted the seconds until I could leave and get back to my solitary projects.
At some point, Mom and Dad stopped pushing and didn’t force me stay where I didn’t fit. I’ve always been grateful for their support and it’s served me well, for the most part.
Nowadays, I spend hours at Hungry Llama creating characters and storylines for some of the most popular games in the world. I’m the youngest team manager in the company because I intrinsically understand how a game flows.
My name isn’t front and center, it doesn’t need to be. I’m happy enough to be included in the credits.
Contrast me with Hope, who lays herself bare to this crowd, holding them here with nothing but her voice. Every piece of her life is carried in the words she sings. Pure magic.
Looking back, I finally understand what my parents were trying to give me when they signed me up for all of those activities. Not a different personality. More like the confidence to step forward when it mattered to me.
I want to talk to her. Walk up, say something clever, maybe even make her smile. The problem is, I can’t fathom how to take that first step.
She pushes into the final chorus, lifting her chin, driving the sound higher. Not chasing perfection. Chasing something real. Her voice shifts, edges fraying intentionally. Raw. Honest. No attempt to smooth it into polished perfection.
I’m disappointed when the last chord rings out. Time has flown by too fast and I won’t get to see her for an entire weekend.
Everyone else in the crowd is mesmerized. A brief pocket of silence opens and collapses under applause.
Clapping, whistles, voices rising all at once.
“Hope!”
Her name moves through the crowd, carried from one person to the next.
She dips her head, then crouches to adjust something near her amp. People surge forward. Phones come out. Questions fly.
“You have a page?”
“Where do you play next?”
“That was insane.”
She moves through it with ease. No rush. No nerves. She hands out small slips of paper, one after another, each person leaving with something tangible.
My pulse kicks up.
This is it. Walk over.Say something.
My feet stay planted.
Come on.
I force myself forward. One step. Then another. The crowd presses in, shoulders brushing mine, bodies shifting around me. The noise builds again, but it’s distant, muffled under the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
She looks up. Straight at me.
Everything slows.
Her eyes hold mine. Storm-gray. Steady.
My throat dries out.
She lifts a card between her fingers and extends it toward me.
For me.
I close the distance without thinking, my hand hovering for a fraction of a second before taking it.
