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Tokyo / A Night to Keep

Last night… was my first official concert.
279 hearts, 279 souls — all gathered beneath the same lights, the same air, the same breath of music I almost couldn’t catch.

My knees were shaking before I stepped on stage. Not from fear, but from a kind of sacred weight. Like the moment you’re handed something precious and fragile — your own voice. Your own dreams. I could hear my breath bouncing in the mic, feel the ache of every note I’d scribbled at 2AM when no one else believed in the sound but me.

But then…
There was that voice.

Low. Warm. Certain.
“You’ll do well. I already know that.”
That voice didn’t belong to the crowd. It belonged to someone else.
Someone I can’t seem to forget.

I don’t know how he knew I needed that. I don’t know if he knew I’d be listening. But his words stayed tucked in the lining of my dress like armor — invisible, but felt.

Afterward, I was rushed into a velvet-curtained car, whisked toward a high-rise filled with glass flutes and strangers wearing names I’ve only read in magazines.
Tokyo's skyline looked like a sea of constellations.
The room was golden.
My smile was polite.
And still, I found myself wishing he had been there — beside me.
Just to whisper something again. Just to look once, like he knew exactly who I was beyond the glitter and the sound.

Maybe next time. Maybe in another city.
Maybe we’re both just tracing music notes across maps until we meet again in the same song.

Until then, I’ll keep singing like he’s listening.
Because something about that night —
something about being seen, even briefly —
felt so good to be me.

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