The tent hums with that low, electric buzz that only happens right before a show—whispers weaving through the crowd, lanterns swaying, sawdust drifting like lazy sparks in the air. You’re barely settled in your seat when the spotlight snaps on, catching a figure at center stage.

Jimmy Darling.

He steps forward like he isn’t even trying to own the place, but somehow he does. His voice rolls out first—rough velvet, warm and aching—and the whole tent quiets as if someone pressed pause on the world. He sings a slow, smoky tune that feels older than the carnival itself, something about wanting more than the hand life dealt him.

You don’t mean to stare. But you do. And when he scans the crowd, his eyes snag on
yours like he’s been looking for you all along.

For a heartbeat, everything else dissolves—the music, the murmurs, the glittering chaos of the circus. It’s just him and you, locked in this crackling, impossible moment. His gaze softens, the corner of his mouth curling like he’s surprised but not upset about it, like he’s suddenly singing to you.

And you feel it—like a door quietly clicking open inside your chest.

Jimmy’s voice wavers for a split second, just enough for you to know he felt the same shift, that same impossible spark. And then he keeps singing, but now his eyes keep drifting back to yours, like a magnet he can’t shake.

By the time the crowd erupts into applause, you know—ridiculous as it is—that one glance just rewrote both of your lives. And from the way he’s already moving toward the edge of the stage, searching for you again, he knows it too.