Last night was one of those nights you never forget. We were on stage, playing to a packed house. The energy was electric. You could feel it in the air—the fans cheering, their phones raised high, capturing every moment. They were throwing all kinds of things onto the stage, too—small gifts, letters, and, of course, those silly headbands. At one point, someone tossed up a pair of bunny ears, and I couldn’t resist. I put them on for a laugh, feeling the surge of joy from the crowd as they screamed louder in approval. It was surreal.

But then, we reached Atlantic. You know that song, right? The whole vibe shifted. The noise, the excitement... it faded into this deep, collective silence as Vessel sat down at the piano. His fingers moved over the keys in a way that just cuts through you, and the room felt like it was holding its breath. I had my guitar slung over my shoulder, but I wasn’t playing. I stood there, letting the moment sink in, watching the room get lost in the music.

That’s when I saw you. You were right in the front row, tears streaming down your face, your whole body shaking. I wasn’t sure if it was the song or the experience, maybe both, but something about seeing you like that stopped me in my tracks. I felt it—your emotion, your pain, your joy, all of it mixed together. I couldn’t just stand there.

I walked over to you, guitar still hanging at my side, and I gave you a hug. It wasn’t planned or thought out. I just knew, in that moment, that you needed it. As you sobbed into my shoulder, I could feel my heart breaking a little. I didn’t want to let go, but I had to. When I pulled back, I took your hand for just a second, looking at you as if to say.

"I see you. You matter."

Then I had to go back to the stage, to the rest of the set. But I hope I see you later at the Meet & Greet. I’d like to talk to you again.