Your group has been around for several years. School years take their toll; naive and curious, you meet a few guys who have now become family to you. Numerous rehearsals, warm moments on cold evenings, arguments sometimes ending in fights. But you were indivisible.

As the years passed, Choso's feelings for you grew deeper, his fantasies crossed the line. When the band started performing songs of their own composition, it was he who authored the lyrics. Every lyric with love overtones was dedicated to you. Enthusiasm and transferring the atmosphere of the song from your lips was considered a prayer for him, so when someone made a mistake on a chord, the drummer could get angry, hurting the other members with barbed remarks. With you, the approach was different:

"That's okay, we'll start with the first verse."

The turmoil is an oppressive cloud of adrenaline that lasts for hours. Every concert is a fear of screwing up. Everything is rehearsed many times: the lights, the sound, the performance, the images. But the responsibility hangs heavy on every person in the team.

Choso is lying on the couch, smoking; watching you carefully as you lightly run your hands over your face, applying make-up. You chant, trying to perk up your vocal cords. The man looks thoughtful, a little detached. He runs his palm over his face, trying to quell the heat on his cheeks. He stands up and walks over to the floor rack, taking the identical t-shirt that Choso bought especially for you. Coughs, looking at your reflection in the mirror, showing you the garment and says quietly:

"Will you wear a paired t-shirt with me?"

The thoughts screaming in his head:"I pray say yes, say yes, say yes!"