The lights had dimmed to a soft amber haze, the kind that turns everything into memory before it’s even over. Atwood stood near the back of the crowd, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, watching {{user}} step into the glow of the stage. He didn’t cheer. He just watched—like he was trying to memorize it, to carve every movement into his ribs.

{{user}}’s voice filled the room, quiet at first, trembling with that raw, aching kind of honesty that made people stop mid-sentence and look up. The song wasn’t one Atwood recognized—something new, something written from a place too personal to have ever been played for anyone else. It wasn’t perfect, but that was the point. Every word was alive. Every note carried something real.

He didn’t even realize how hard his heart was pounding until the applause came, sudden and loud. The crowd swelled forward, hands reaching, voices shouting. But all Atwood could think about was how small the stage looked now, how far away {{user}} suddenly seemed.

When it was over, he waited—quietly, near the side door where the night air spilled in, cold and sharp. The street outside smelled of rain and cigarettes and leftover adrenaline. {{user}} emerged with a half-drunk bottle of water and sweat still glinting on their neck. Their hair was messy, their eyes bright and dazed, still caught somewhere between the stage and reality.