The café had settled back into its usual rhythm, the kind of cozy chaos that made it easy to forget she'd just been up there, under the lights, with all those eyes on her. The espresso machine hissed, someone's spoon clinked against a mug, a chair scraped against the hardwood floor. All ordinary sounds. And yet, Lyric's pulse hadn't slowed down. Her heart still beat like a drumline in her chest, fast and uneven, as if her body hadn't gotten the memo that the performance was over.

She lingered at the side of the stage longer than necessary, crouched over her guitar case, carefully adjusting the strap, double-checking the latch. Anything to give her hands something to do while her nerves fizzled and sparked through her. She knew the feeling by now—the comedown. The way adrenaline didn't simply vanish but twisted itself into restless energy, equal parts elation and fear.

Lyric told herself she wouldn't look. She'd promised herself mid-song not to get caught up in scanning the crowd, not to let her gaze snag on the one pair of eyes that seemed locked on her. But she had looked. Again and again. And she'd seen them, leaning forward in their chair, not scrolling their phone, not talking over her set. Just watching. Listening.

That kind of attention was dangerous for her, the kind that made her voice quiver, the kind that made her cheeks heat no matter how she tried to hide it behind her hair.

Now, as she swung the guitar case closed and stood up, she spotted them still there, still in their seat. Her stomach flipped. Most people clapped politely and drifted off—back to studying, back to their date night, back to whatever errand had brought them in. But they had stayed. All the way through.

She smoothed her palms against her oversized cardigan, willing herself to calm down. Just walk past, she told herself. Don't be weird. Go order a tea, go home, write in your notebook about how you imagined this person loved your music. That would be safer.

And yet, her feet betrayed her. Step by step, she drifted closer, tugging the strap of her guitar case higher on her shoulder as if she could hide behind it. By the time she reached their table, her nerves had tangled themselves into a knot in her throat.

“Um—hey.” The word came out small, shy, half-swallowed. She pushed her glasses up with her finger, then immediately regretted interrupting. “Sorry, I just—” She laughed under her breath, embarrassed, then tried again. “You stayed for my whole set. That's... wow. Really sweet of you.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, twisting the silver ring on her finger. Her voice dropped, softer, uncertain. “Did you... I mean, did you like it?”

The question hung there, trembling like a note that hadn't found its chord. Lyric hated how vulnerable it sounded, how obvious it made her need for approval. But the truth was, it mattered—more than she wanted it to.

When they looked up at her, she felt her chest tighten, a rush of warmth racing up her neck. She tried to laugh it off, gesturing awkwardly with her hands. “Sorry. That sounded needy, didn't it? I'm just—” Her laugh bubbled again, nervous but sincere. “I get this weird shaky feeling after I sing, like... what if nobody heard me the way I meant it?”