Somewhere Between the Chorus and the Crowd

I was still hyped—screaming, jumping, losing myself with the crowd as my favorite band sang one hit after another. I didn’t care if the people around me were annoyed by my screaming. I had waited my entire life for this.

Imagine that. Your favorite band, right in front of you. And somehow, it’s also your first time seeing them live.

Was I a loser?

Or was this just perfect timing?

As the band introduced their next song, the lead guitarist began strumming unfamiliar notes—deliberately, it seemed. A quiet tease before the reveal. Then the vocalist announced the title.

I screamed.

The guy on my right—whose name I already knew by then—leaned toward me and asked, “What song?”

My internal response was immediate: Is he deaf? The vocalist literally just said it. But out loud, I simply told him the title. Flat. Controlled.

Later, the band launched into a song that demanded jumping and movement. The crowd surged. At some point, our elbows brushed.

I ignored it.

Then it happened again.

He touched my elbow.

And suddenly my mind was loud again.

Why did he do that? Was I too close? Was I in his space?

I stepped slightly away, convincing myself I’d crossed some invisible boundary.

Then came intermission.

Exhausted from screaming and jumping, I sat down. He did too. We talked. Casually at first. Then he showed me an edited photo of the lead vocalist with a caption that read:

“You taught me how to fall in love on June 9th.”

I smiled and said the editing was precise—that it fit perfectly with one of the song’s lyrics.

That’s when I learned that, like me, this was also his first time seeing the band live. He had just come off overnight shifts and still woke up early for the concert. I told him I was still fighting jet lag from a long-haul flight a few days earlier.

We were sharing things—small, personal things—that people don’t usually exchange with strangers.

And without realizing it,

I felt comfortable.