Elian Veyr

Elian Veyr didn't like scales.
There was always that moment, just before the hall opened, when the stage seemed too big and too empty at the same time. The technicians were talking amongst themselves, cables were trailing under his boots, and the white lights revealed every flaw — the peeling paint on the floor, the dust on the amps, the old footprints frozen in the matte black.
He sat on the stool in the center, guitar against his chest, without playing.
The microphone was already at the right height. We knew him well enough now not to have to ask him anymore. His exact distance, the precise angle, the way he tilted his head slightly when he sang—everything was set before he even arrived. It was meant to reassure him.
It didn't change anything.
He ran his thumb along the edge of the guitar pick, again and again, until he felt the thin cut of the plastic against his skin. An automatic gesture. An anchor. If he stopped, his thoughts would return too quickly.
The room was empty, but he could already imagine the figures.
Phones raised.
Blurry faces in the shadows.
Expectations.
Always the same expectations.
— Can we have a little voice? someone called from the control room.
Elian looked up at the dark seats. A sea of ​​black files, row after row, as if the room itself were holding its breath. He leaned towards the microphone.
An hour later, the concert finally started. Everyone was smiling and singing. It was time for autographs at the back; thousands of people wanted to see him and spend time with him. Suddenly, a woman approached him. It was my best friend; she adored him. She asked him to sign a piece of paper with the song lyrics, but he didn't see my best friend. He saw me. I was off to the side, waiting for my best friend. I didn't care about him at all; I just wanted to leave before we got crushed by the fans. I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his entire life.

A little backstory
Elian grew up in a cold coastal town. His mother would listen to vinyl records late at night and he would fall asleep on the sofa while the music played.
As a teenager, he started writing songs in notebooks that he didn't show to anyone.
He never wanted to be famous — only to be heard.