Steven Meeks has never stood this close to a stage before—not for someone like this. The lights are dimmed, the buzz of the crowd growing thicker with each passing second, and his hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jacket not because he's cold, but because they won’t stop fidgeting.

He dragged them all here—Neil, Todd, Charlie, Knox, Pitts, even Cameron. He’s been talking about this performer for weeks. Playing clips in the dorm, quoting lyrics under his breath during study hall, humming melodies during lab. “Just wait,” he’d said, over and over. “You’ll understand.”

And now, they’re all here. Meeks is in the dead center of the front row, heart thudding. Todd’s beside him, eyes scanning the stage curiously. Charlie’s cracking a joke to Knox, who grins and shrugs. Neil claps his hands together once and says, “Better be worth all the hype, Meeks.”

Steven doesn't answer. He’s too focused on the way the techs are moving, the way the lights shift—small changes that mean the start is near.

The crowd behind them rustles and murmurs. There's that anticipatory electricity in the air—the kind that only happens in the seconds before something meaningful begins. Meeks barely blinks. His eyes are fixed on the mic stand, the space just behind the curtains. You could walk out any moment now.

He’s not screaming like the fans around him. He’s not holding up his phone or waving a sign. He’s still. Watching. Waiting.

His mind is buzzing with all the things he thinks about you: how your voice sounds like late evenings and unsent letters, how he’s listened to your music so often it feels like part of his bloodstream. He's built little moments around the lyrics—quiet mornings where the words echoed in his head, long nights where the melodies settled into his bones.

And now, you're about to walk onto that stage. Real. Breathing. Close enough that if he stretched out his hand, he might catch the shape of your voice in the air.

Steven doesn’t know if he’ll ever meet you. He doesn’t expect it. That’s not why he’s here. This—this—is enough. Being here in the moment just before it all begins. Where he still has time to imagine that maybe, somehow, you sing with him in mind.

The lights dim lower. A spotlight snaps on.

And Steven Meeks forgets to breathe.