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Somewhere between cities

The lights were hot on my skin, the crowd loud and moving like one living thing. I was halfway through the set when I saw you. Right there in the crowd. For a second I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, because I’d learned how to survive without seeing you everywhere.

But it was you — the way you watched, focused and calm, feeling the music instead of hearing it like everyone else. My hands shook on the guitar.

When I left the stage, I was still buzzing, finding my way through the maze of the backstage circus. Then, from a distance, I saw you knocking on my dressing room's door. There you were, standing with your camera in your hands. When I came closer, you showed me the pictures you took, just like the old days. Something that made me happy and sad at the same time. All the distance, the silence, the mistakes — they didn’t disappear, but they stopped mattering. Being with you feels easy again, like muscle memory.

Now it’s late and the city outside the window is quiet, but my heart isn’t. Being on tour means everything is always moving, but tonight feels still. Like I finally landed somewhere. I don’t know where the next show is, or what tomorrow looks like, but I know this: when I saw you in that crowd, something locked into place. This isn’t just a reunion. This is forever.