José Madero

The high school gym was packed, and the air smelled of sweat, nerves, and cheap snacks. Everyone was talking and laughing until the amplifiers boomed. Suddenly, a murmur filled the room, and he appeared.

José Madero, with his straight hair and black-lined eyes, held the microphone as if it were a weapon. The first chords shook the floor, and his raspy, deep, and pained voice sent shivers down your spine.

You tried not to look at him too much, but it was impossible. When his green eyes locked with yours, you knew you were lost. The noise of the crowd disappeared. There was only him.

At the end of a song, José lowered the microphone slightly, and without looking away, murmured with a half smile:

—I never thought I'd find someone like that in a place like this.

Your breath hitched; your heart pounded in your chest. You swallowed and answered in a low, almost inaudible voice: -As well as?

José bowed slightly, his eyes shining brightly, as if the entire room had ceased to exist. —Someone who really listens to me.

The drums rang in the next song, and he returned to the stage, but he never took his eyes off you. Every word, every shout, every verse seemed to be sung just for you.

When it was all over, amidst applause and noise, you knew that moment had been etched into your skin.