The stage, a simple corner of the multicultural center, felt impossibly vast. It was merely a collection of risers, bathed in the cool glow of blue LED lights, yet to me, it might as well have been Madison Square Garden. My palm was slick with sweat, clutching the neck of my guitar, while my other hand gripped Dean’s worn hackysack as if it were a lifeline. The lingering vibrations of the previous performer’s bass still thrummed beneath my feet, a subtle tremor that echoed my own internal shake.

Jess, sensing my anxiety, nudged me gently. “You’re gonna be great,” she murmured, her voice a calming presence. Bastien offered a reassuring thumbs-up, his fingers already expertly tuning his own instrument. I had practically begged them to play with me, convinced that their support would make the terrifying prospect less exposing, less solitary. But Jess, with her unwavering confidence, had simply smiled. “You’ve got this on your own.”

Then came the announcement, echoing through the sparsely filled room: “Next up, we have Cahn Rayne…” For a moment, I froze, my legs heavy, glued to the Berber carpet beneath my feet. The space between the call and my response stretched, feeling like an eternity. But then, a calmness washed over me, almost as though Dean was smiling and telling me I could do this. I stood, propelled forward, and ascended the three short steps to the waiting mic stand.

The crowd was modest, perhaps twenty faces, but each one was turned towards me with expectant gazes. They were looking, listening. And it had been so long, an agonizing 153 days, since anyone had truly listened. I adjusted the strap of my guitar, gathering a small comfort from the familiar weight, and settled in front of the mic stand that seemed too thin to protect me from the audience, the stark beam of the single spotlight making me feel incredibly exposed.

I pushed through it. There was no need for an introduction, no prepared speech. I simply began to play. The chords were soft, a gentle, steady rhythm, the melody a lullaby I had penned just a few nights prior, when sleep had refused to come. When Dean’s memory had consumed my thoughts, and I found myself recalling a song my mother used to sing to me as a child.

So just as before, at our lake under the stars… I’ll be waiting for you…

It was a song born of longing, a fragile hope that something beautiful might still await on the other side of profound heartbreak. My voice, at first thin and hesitant, found its strength by the second verse. I dared not look at the faces in the crowd; instead, I closed my eyes, letting the music carry me back to simpler times, to learning chords with Dean by the moonlit lake, whispering my dreams into a world that had yet to know me.

When the final note faded into the silence, it was immediate, then replaced by a warm reaction. Scattered applause, a few heartfelt cheers, and Jess’s enthusiastic whistle, as if I had just secured a coveted record deal. It wasn’t a standing ovation, no grand theatrical display, but it was real.

I walked off the stage, my hands trembling, and sank onto a chair. Ever thoughtful, Jess handed me a lukewarm cup of tea. “Told you,” she said with a knowing smile. Bastien leaned in, his expression contemplative. “That song… you write that?”

Still a little breathless, my hands tingling and shaking from the nervous rush of synapses firing through my body, I nodded. Looking at Bastien was like looking at Dean. It was almost like kismet, a feeling that Dean, in some profound way, was still with me. Bastien smiled, a genuine, encouraging grin. “You should record it.”

And for the first time in 153 days, the idea didn’t make me shrink away. I nodded slowly, a tentative seed of possibility taking root. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”