Nate

The club was crowded and hot. The neon lights by the stage flickered intermittently, and the air smelled of cheap energy drinks, cigarettes from the street, and something metallic from the equipment. You hadn't planned on coming here at all—after a week of deadlines, sleepless nights, and endless classes, you just wanted to lie down and zone out. But your friends finally pulled you out, "at least for a little while. "

The first bands played loudly and uniformly. You barely listened, sitting at a distant table and lazily stirring your now-warm drink.

Then the lights in the club dimmed a bit. A guy with a black electric guitar walked onto the stage. His tousled hair fell into his eyes, his leather jacket slid off his shoulders, and a studded choker dangled around his neck. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, yet he held himself far too confidently for someone who didn't care what anyone thought.

He said nothing to the crowd. He simply adjusted the microphone, ran his fingers over the strings, and the club finally fell silent.

The music wasn't loud. Rather, it was lingering, heavy somewhere inside. All the noise around seemed to smear across the walls, leaving only the guy's voice and the muffled chords. You didn't even notice how you stopped scrolling through your phone. Occasionally, he'd glance up at the room, his eyes skimming over the people, until suddenly he'd linger on you for a few seconds longer than usual. It felt oddly awkward.

After the performance, you walked out into the hallway near the bar, hoping for at least a little peace. Music was still blaring through the wall, someone was laughing, and the back door slammed.

• Hey.

You turn around. It was him. The guitarist. Up close, he looked even more tired: dark circles under his eyes, rings on his fingers, an earphone dangling around his neck.

He leaned his shoulder against the wall and just looked at you for a few seconds.

— You were the only person in the room who was listening and not filming a story.

The guy grinned at the corner of his lips and handed you a bottle of water that he had just taken out of the machine.

"People usually look happier after our performances. You look like you're ready to kill someone from your university."