Chapter 7The Hidden Audience
1108 Words
The note stayed in my pocket the time I was going home.
I read it a lot of times.
Maybe twenty times or more.
It said "The people laughing today are not your audience."
This sentence is very simple.
It made me feel better than anything anyone had said to me in a long time.
Most people try to make the pain smaller.
They tell you to ignore it and move on.
They say stop caring about it.
The person who wrote the note was not pretending that the laughter did not hurt.
They were reminding me that the people who made fun of me do not get to decide how good I am.
I wanted to believe that.
I really wanted to believe it.
The problem is that believing something and feeling it are two things.
That night I could not sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw the auditorium and the big screen and the photographs and the laughter.
I hated how clearly I remembered it all.
Around midnight I gave up trying to sleep. I sat by my bedroom window.
The city lights were shining in the distance.
Cars were moving slowly on the streets
Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go and something to do.
I felt stuck.
It felt like my whole life was happening to people and I was just watching from the side.
Then my phone made a noise.
It was a message from a number.
My heart started beating
The message said "You played differently today."
I caught my breath.
The piano room.
Again.
The person who sent the message had definitely heard me play.
Maybe more than once.
I stared at the screen. Then I typed a reply.
Who are you?
For a moments nothing happened.
Then the typing bubble. Disappeared and appeared again.
My pulse was racing.
Finally a message arrived.
It said "Someone who believes in you."
I frowned.
That was not an answer.
I asked how they got my number.
There was a pause. Then they said "That's not the important question."
I rolled my eyes.
Great.
My mysterious friend liked being annoying.
Then I asked what the important question was.
The reply came away.
It said "Why don't you believe in yourself?"
These words hit me hard.
I stared at them for a time.
Because I did not have an answer.
Maybe I had too many answers.
Years of being bullied and years of being rejected and years of feeling like I was the important person in every room.
After a while doubt becomes a part of you.
Like a shadow.
Eventually I put the phone aside.
No reply.
No explanation.
Just silence.
I could not stop thinking about those words.
Why don't you believe in yourself?
The morning the question followed me to school.
The hallways seemed louder than usual.
Maybe I was just paying more attention.
As I approached my locker several students looked at me.
Not the usual looks.
Different looks.
Curious looks.
Whispering.
I hated it.
Being invisible had its points.
Suddenly becoming noticeable felt worse.
Least being invisible came with being private.
I quickly grabbed my books. Then I froze.
There was another note inside my locker.
My stomach flipped.
Slowly I unfolded it.
This time there were four words.
It said "Don't quit the competition."
That was it.
No signature.
No explanation.
Nothing.
I shoved the note into my backpack before anyone could see.
The whole situation was becoming ridiculous.
Yet...
I could not deny how much those messages mattered.
Someone believed I could do this.
Someone really believed it.
The thought stayed with me the day.
Even during lunch.
Even during class.
Even when Vanessa walked past me with a smirk.
For once her opinion did not bother me much.
Maybe because another voice had started competing with hers.
A kinder voice.
A supportive voice.
The final bell eventually rang.
Like always I headed toward the music building.
The old piano room felt different lately.
Less lonely.
It felt like the walls were listening.
I sat down. Put my hands on the keys and played.
The melody came naturally.
It was lighter than before.
Still emotional.
Still honest.
Lighter.
Hopeful.
Halfway through the song I sensed movement behind me.
This time I did not stop.
I did not panic.
I did not look around.
I just kept playing.
A strange certainty settled over me.
Someone was listening.
Not judging.
Not laughing.
Listening.
When the final note faded a voice spoke from the doorway.
It said "That ones new."
I smiled before turning
It was Ryder.
Of course.
He stood there holding two paper cups.
One of which he gave to me.
I blinked.
I said "What is this?"
He said " chocolate."
I stared at him.
Then at the cup.
Then back at him.
I said "Why?"
His expression was serious.
He said "You look like someone who drinks chocolate."
I laughed.
The sound came out before I could stop it.
Ryder grinned.
He said "There it is."
I said "What?"
He said "That laugh."
My cheeks got hot.
I looked away.
Big mistake.
His smile got wider.
Now he knew he had made me blush.
I took the cup.
The warmth felt nice in my hands.
Comforting.
Unexpectedly comforting.
For a moment neither of us said anything.
Then Ryder nodded toward the piano.
He said "You wrote that song?"
I said "Maybe."
He sighed.
He said "We've discussed this."
A smile came to my lips.
He said "You write songs."
I laughed again.
And more that look appeared in his eyes.
As though hearing me laugh was important to him.
The realization made my heart skip a beat.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Outside the afternoon sun was shining through the windows.
The room was golden.
For a few moments everything felt simple.
No bullies.
No expectations.
No humiliation.
Just music.
Company that felt easy.
Then Ryder looked at me carefully.
His expression was serious.
He said "Can I ask you something?"
I nodded.
He said "Why do you always act like you're apologizing for existing?"
The question took my breath away.
Because I did not know how to answer.
Maybe that was answer enough.
The silence stretched between us.
Not uncomfortable.
Just honest.
For the time someone had noticed something I had been trying to hide.
Somehow that scared me more, than being invisible.
Being unseen is lonely.
Being truly seen?
That is frightening.
Especially when part of you worries the person looking might not like what they find.
Yet as Ryder stood there watching me I could not shake the feeling that he already had.
- Writer
