Chapter five: The echo before the stage
1234 Words
Fear doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it whispers.
And for Peculiar, that whisper grew louder with every step toward Friday.
The flyer Noah gave her stayed tucked inside her notebook like a burning secret. She hadn’t told anyone—not even her roommates at the hostel. She wasn’t ready for their wide-eyed questions or their fake excitement that might chip at her courage.
So she kept it hidden.
But the echo of it lived in everything she did.
When she walked to class, she imagined standing on that stage, the mic in her hand, the weight of everyone’s eyes pressing down.
When she stared out the window, she imagined her voice cracking on the first note, her knees buckling, the silence that might follow.
And when she looked in the mirror, she whispered to herself, “I’ve got this,” even when she didn’t believe it.
Wednesday evening two days before the Open Mic.
Noah had set up their usual garage studio, but this time it felt different.
The mic was standing tall in the center. The ring light glowed softly. A stool waited like it had been expecting her.
Noah was already there, tuning his guitar.
“Ready?” he asked gently.
Peculiar hesitated at the door. Her fingers clutched her lyric notebook so tightly the pages bent.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said, her voice small.
“You don’t have to know,” he said, setting the guitar down. “Just try.”
She walked in, slowly, like she was entering a sacred place. Her eyes moved across the tiny room—the foam-padded walls, the wires on the floor, the little whiteboard where Noah had scribbled "Believe in your sound."
He gestured toward the mic.
“Pretend it’s just me here,” he said. “Sing like you’re still in the shed.”
Peculiar bit her bottom lip. Her hands trembled as she stepped toward the mic. She glanced at Noah. He gave her a small, encouraging nod.
She closed her eyes.
Took a breath.
Opened her mouth.
And sang.
It wasn’t perfect. Her voice cracked a little in the first verse. Her pitch wobbled like a heartbeat. But then… something happened. Her shoulders dropped. Her jaw relaxed. Her chest opened.
The sound that came out wasn’t just music. It was truth.
She sang the piece they had written together — "You Let Me Sing Messy."
By the second chorus, her voice grew stronger, louder. Noah didn’t join in with his guitar. He just sat there, hands folded, eyes fixed on her like watching her fly for the first time.
When she finished, the room was silent for a long second.
Then Noah stood and clapped.
“Again,” he said with a smile. “Sing it again. This time, like you mean it.”
She laughed through a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
And she sang it again.
Later that night, back in her room, Peculiar stared at her reflection in the mirror.
She looked the same. Hoodie. Headwrap. Bare-faced. But her eyes… they had changed. Just a little.
There was a flicker of something in them now.
Not fire. Not yet.
But maybe a spark.
She reached for her notebook and wrote one line at the top of a fresh page:
“I’m scared. But I’m going anyway.”
Thursday morning.
She avoided her mother again.
She didn’t mean to. It was just easier to slip out early than to face another cold stare across the breakfast table. Another silent judgment she hadn’t earned.
She was halfway through campus when her phone buzzed.
Noah:
“Got time today? I want you to hear yourself.”
Peculiar frowned.
Peculiar:
“Didn’t we already record yesterday?”
Noah:
“Trust me.”
She met him after class.
He had brought his laptop and small Bluetooth speaker to their garden bench.
“Sit,” he said.
She did. Cautiously.
Then he pressed play.
It was the recording from the night before.
Her voice poured out of the speaker—raw, shaking, full.
At first, she cringed. “Do I really sound like that?”
“Yes,” he said.
She tilted her head. “It’s weird hearing myself.”
“It’s powerful,” he corrected. “You sound like someone telling the truth.”
She didn’t speak. Just let the song finish.
By the time it ended, there were tears in her eyes.
Noah reached into his bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“What's that?” she asked.
He handed it to her.
It was a schedule for the Open Mic Night.
Her name was on it.
#8. Peculiar Adeniran – Original Piece
Her breath hitched.
“You signed me up already?”
He nodded. “You needed a push. I’ll be there. Right in front.”
Her voice was a whisper. “What if I freeze?”
“Then I’ll be the first to clap.”
Friday night.
Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
The performance hall wasn’t huge, but it felt like a coliseum. Red seats lined the aisles. Fairy lights dangled from the ceiling. The air buzzed with excitement and nerves.
Performers were huddled in corners. Someone was tuning a guitar. Someone else paced in heels, whispering lines under their breath.
Peculiar stood backstage, fingers ice-cold, breath uneven.
She wore a simple black top and jeans. Nothing fancy. But her notebook was in her back pocket. And in her palm, she clutched Noah’s river stone.
When the host called out, “Number 7,” she stepped aside to let the next person pass.
One more slot.
She closed her eyes.
Somewhere in the crowd, Noah sat waiting. Maybe her classmates too. Maybe strangers who’d never heard her name. Her mother definitely wasn’t there. But somehow, that made this moment feel more her own.
The host called her name.
Her feet moved before her mind could stop them.
One step.
Another.
Onto the stage.
The lights hit her face.
The mic stood tall.
The crowd was a blur.
She stared at the sea of shadows beyond the lights, took one slow breath, and reached for the words she and Noah had written.
No music. No backup.
Just her voice.
She opened her mouth.
And sang.
Not like the girl from the shed.
Not like the girl hiding in hallways.
But like someone tired of shrinking.
Her voice shook at first. A ripple of doubt. But then the chorus came, and something rose in her.
This was hers.
Every note.
Every line.
Every echo.
When she reached the final verse, she saw one phone light raise up. Then another. Then another.
The crowd didn’t cheer right away when she finished.
They were quiet.
Listening.
Breathing with her.
Then the claps came.
Slow at first.
Then full.
Loud.
Surrounding her.
Peculiar stood there, stunned.
She did it.
She sang.
And for the first time ever—people heard her.
Backstage, she found Noah waiting.
He didn’t say much. Just opened his arms.
She walked straight into them, buried her face in his shoulder.
“I didn’t die,” she whispered.
He chuckled. “Nope. You lived.”
That night, back in her room, Peculiar sat at her desk.
Her notebook lay open.
She stared at the blank page, then wrote:
“I sang tonight. And the world didn’t end. It started.”
- Writer
