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10/7 Vilnius

that night was loud, golden, and a little bit cursed. halfway through the set, right when star witness hit its bridge, the mic just… died. no warning, no dramatic flicker of lights, just silence. it was one of those silences that feel too big, too sharp, where even your own heartbeat sounds like a snare drum. i looked at my band. they looked at me. i could see panic blooming in the corner of their eyes, but honestly, i wasn’t mad. i was almost calm. it felt weirdly cinematic, like the universe was testing if i could hold a crowd without electricity.

so i stepped forward, dropped the dead mic, and said, “i guess you know the words.” and they did.

the crowd roared back the first line like they’d been waiting for that cue all along. i swear i felt the ground shake. thousands of voices, all tangled up in mine, all shouting the same pain, the same joy, the same chorus that i wrote in a dark kitchen two years ago when i thought nobody would ever listen. it was chaos and magic and a little bit holy.

someone recorded it, of course. the video blew up the next morning. comments like “this is what real performance looks like” and “blizzard doesn’t need a mic, she IS the mic” were everywhere. i laughed, but part of me got quiet about it. because it reminded me why i started this in the first place: to connect, not just perform.

sometimes the universe kills your sound so you can hear what’s real.

we fixed the mic before the encore, but honestly? the best song of the night was the one we sang together. same room, same chaos, same heartbeat.

and for the record, i think the silence was in tune with me.