The production value is incredible, too. Huge screens behind her magnify the striking figure she cuts—light blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, pooling over the black gown. All of it set against a white grand piano and a black stage. The contrast is cinematic, hypnotic.
The hushed crowd is soaking in the moment, same as half the crew—who seem too captivated to remember what they’re supposed to be doing.
I wave at one of the stage techs and give him a sternNo ogling on the joblook. He gets moving.
Although, I sympathize.
I can’t tear my eyes off her either.
And Ifeelher playing. Deep in my ribcage.
The delicate, trembling notes in the upper register are like falling tears, while the harsh bass chords thunder beneath them. She’s not just competent—she’s connected. Present. And when she starts singing, that velvet-and-ash voice of hers floods the room, swelling into a tide of emotion, sweeping everything away.
Them.
The audience, I mean.
I rip my eyes from her to adjust the mix, pulling back on the piano and boosting her vocal channels to match the intensity she’s injecting into the performance.
This wasn’t in rehearsal, this unguarded edge. It’s electric.
It’s also messing with my levels.
But I don’t mind. The moment is worth it.
The song is reaching its peak when something shifts.
Her playing falters—just a touch. She misses a couple of notes. Then a couple more. Her voice gets louder, almost desperate, but it doesn’t match the song.
Something’s off.
My eyes snap up. Her spine is stiff, rigid as a steel rod, her head tilting away from the crowd toward her shoulder.
Her IEM.
The front-of-house engineer points to his headset and gives me a sharp “Fix this now” look. The audience is starting to notice.
I make eye contact with the stage manager and gesture toward the stage. She nods and immediately starts speaking into her mic.
I grab a fully charged IEM pack and double-check the connections in one quick motion before darting out.
I keep low as I move.
No one’s looking for me; they’re focused on her. But years of instinct keep me in the shadows—unobtrusive.
My pulse is a jackhammer.
I haven’t been on a stage in a long time. I forgot how energizing and unmooring it can be, all at once.
But this isn’t about me and my broken dreams.
It’s about Lou.
I don’t know how it’s possible for her posture to go from stiff to even stiffer. To anyone else, she looks composed. Regal, even.Because she doesn’t let people see her nerves. Doesn’t let anyone know what distresses her unless she wants them to know.
But to me? She may as well be trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
And that makes the hammering in my heart start to ache.
