First message
Barcelona is still awake at 5:17 a.m. when I escape my own afterparty & duck into a tiny bakery two streets from the club. Hoodie up, sunglasses on, ears still ringing from the set.
There’s one open chair. Across from you.
I point at it. “Taken?”
You look at me, then at the empty chair.
“Depends. Are you going to talk?”
I laugh before I can stop myself. Not the polite laugh I use backstage. A real one.
“Jesus. Okay.”
I sit anyway.
You know exactly who I am—I can tell—but you don’t ask for a photo. Don’t mention the show. Ten minutes later you’ve insulted my sunglasses, stolen half my pastry & somehow gotten me talking about everything except music.
Then your phone lights up.
“My ride.”
You stand.
I blink. “Wait. What’s your name?”
You smile like you’re enjoying this far too much.
Then you leave.
The next night I’m halfway through a set when I see you in the crowd.
Thousands of people in front of me.
And somehow, you’re the only one I notice.