A ripple of laughter.
“Used to be,” I continue, “I got up here because I liked the noise.”
I strum the guitar once.
The sound cuts clean through the space.
“I liked the attention. The energy. The feeling of being—” I gesture loosely. “—bigger than I actually was.”
More laughter.
Knowing this time.
“Turns out,” I say, softer now, “that’s not a great long-term strategy.”
The crowd quiets again.
There’s a shift.
Subtle.
But real.
“I took some time,” I go on. “Got knocked around a bit. Learned a few things the hard way.”
That gets a murmur.
Because they’ve seen it.
The footage.
The arena.
The moment everything changed.
“I learned,” I say, my voice steady now, “that there are things in this life that matter more than being loud.”
I glance toward the edge of the stage.
Toward them.
Tilda hasn’t moved.
Jesse is still watching me like I’m the most interesting thing in the universe.
“That’s new for me,” I admit.
A few chuckles.
“But I’m working on it.”
I adjust my grip on the guitar.
“This next one—” I pause, letting the moment breathe. “This next one is different.”
The room leans in.
Not physically.
