v

He steps away from the mic and hurries off the stage.

A pause, everywhere: What was that?

Again, my default reaction: this has to be a joke. I’m being messed with. But my gut says otherwise. I mean, the story he told wasn’t real. It never happened. But the spirit of what he was saying, how he was saying it—in some weird way, it felt true. Like he actually meant it.

There hasn’t been much encouragement these last few years. Even when I’d get the occasional compliment (Connor, you’re so artistic; funny; passionate), I never believed it. Against all the negative feedback, a few nice words didn’t register. Also, it depended on who was giving the compliments. They meant less from my mother (who overdid it), more from my father (who underdid it), and the most from…

That’s the fucked-up part about this speech. It would’ve really meant something coming from a true friend. He should have been the one standing up there, saying those words. Because for him, I actually did show up. For him, I risked it all.

Around me, there’s a growing sound.

(And as usual, I only ended up hurting myself.)

First sparse.

(What difference did any of it make?)

Then steady.

(Did I even matter at all?)

Hitting me. Slowly. What I’m hearing. Like an answer.

Applause.