When you lived in a world where everything seemed backwards, it was hard to know when to trust yourself. But the moment I stepped on stage, I entrusted the audience with my music. I trusted myself that for half an hour, I could be my authentic self. Music was the one language that let me speak to others on the same footing. The stage was my world, as it was a lens for everyone else to see me as what I wanted to be: a musician.

"And I'm lost on the road...but something tells me it's home," I finished, strumming the last notes before the restaurant broke into applause.

The clapping washed over me like amplifications of my song, breaking my trance. No one seemed to hear my muttered "Thank you," but it was nice, having the stage to yourself.

I unplugged the cable from my guitar and the PA system. The best thing about this restaurant was that they were prepared with all the equipment the average musician needed. The setup was always the same, everything was organized, and the restaurant people knew what the musicians needed. I only had to bring my guitar. The stage lights dimmed slightly, signaling intermission before the next show. After lowering the microphone stand, I double-checked I got everything, then ducked backstage and clattered down the wooden steps, my veins fizzling like sparkling champagne.

Who was next after intermission? The musicians from earlier had left, cancelling my plan to crawl out of my shell and talk with them. That wouldn't happen either way though.

Searching the restaurant, I almost bumped into a musician's merchandise table. Like most singers, they had their own pins, magnets and T-shirts. It reminded me of my competition. But that was okay. I was a regular here, while these people were new. Besides, I told the restaurant owner I had a bunch of new originals to perform for future gigs.

"Earth to Tai?" someone called, bringing my attention back to my destination: the table right next to the stage speakers.

Monty's lips twitched as I slid in the chair across from him. I swore the dude never slept—he pulled up all-nighters studying for the upcoming fall exams, coding a visual novel game, and playing Legend of Zelda like there was no tomorrow. It was a miracle he had enough energy to watch me perform, but as he'd phrased it, "I'm your friend. Why not?"

Over the past few months that I'd known him, I'd begun to believe what he said. But not only did he see me as a friend, but he befriended me because of who I was, and not in spite of it.

Now he tapped the scrap of paper in front of him, where he'd reprinted my lyrics in his neat handwriting. "Seeing you onstage is a different experience. You look happier than I thought possible."

So happy that I stood by the stage, distracted by the things around me. But I was in a good mood. I zipped up my guitar in its case, bouncing in my seat. Finally, after stretching my fingers so they weren't so jittery, I signed, "And I'm happy that you could finally hear my guitar! Or feel the vibrations at least."

"I heard some of it. Thanks for reserving a spot near the speakers. Anyway, what are your plans besides playing gigs? Your finances are stable—I mean kind of, but you have this place to play at, so it's better. So what's stopping you from doing more now?"

"I want to take it slow." Life barely gave me a chance to breathe. "I haven't thought beyond this because this was my goal. To make a living out of my art and what I can do, right? I'm looking for more places that have accommodations for my needs. That's been unsuccessful. But! I've been improving on my songs! The whole reason I quit architecture was so I could pursue something I enjoy. It's a nice feeling to show my parents that I can be independent and make my own decisions. And..."

I trailed off because Monty had asked that question enough times that for once, I knew what he was thinking.

He said it anyway. "Hey. I'm not going to pretend I'm a know-it-all when it comes to the music industry. But you can't operate in a bubble. I'm surprised that you haven't received offers or anything from other companies or venues."

"I did."

His jaw dropped. "Dude! Don't tell me. You rejected them?"

I knew my music was good. It wasn't the mainstream pop that everyone listened to, but it had an audience. The problem came with networking. Socializing. Meeting other people and maintaining those relationships. On the stage I was myself, but off-stage was a constant performance of blending in, ignoring your own instincts and copying others.

The worst part? There were good people out there. People who believed in me. Like Monty. I didn't know how we were still friends after a few months. I didn't know why he had so much faith in me.

So when I would inevitably mess something up, when they realized I wasn't really the person they expected me to be, I'd be left alone again. And that hurt more than anything else.

Monty huffed. "Man, I don't know what's wrong. So what if it doesn't work out? You always have next time."

I shrank from his stare. "Don't stare at me. And I keep telling myself that, but it doesn't work."

He opened his mouth to say something—probably along the lines of "You're not trying hard enough." Monty didn't understand; he racked up as many real-life achievements as in video games. He glared at his fists. Tightened fists: a sign of anger.

I leaned away. My mind raced. Was this it? If I could make an excuse to go to the bathroom, then I could use my power and change his opinions about me. It'd hurt less than if Monty told me directly—and he was as blunt as you'd get.

No, wait. What was I thinking? He was my friend. And he said exactly what he thought. When you couldn't read other people's minds like every other person, that was the best friend you could ask for.

Monty breathed in deeply. "I don't know what's going on in your mind, Tai. But you're worrying too much about what other people think. If it's any reassurance to you, they're the stupid ones."

Was that a smile? Or a grimace? Monty was never great at expressing himself. Even with the splash of glowing neon green pixels on his sweater, the restaurant's dim lighting made it hard to see his expression. I liked this restaurant because the lighting wasn't harsh, but after 7 o'clock in the evening, it was hard for me to read people's facial expressions. Same went for Monty when he was trying to guess what others were saying.

And another con of playing gigs in the evenings: restaurants got rowdier as more customers came in, seeking refuge from the cold. I grimaced as five different conversations from the nearby tables came within earshot. I shook my head at Monty; whatever else he was saying, I couldn't focus on it.

Monty signed instead. Both of us weren't the best at ASL, but I got what he meant: "Let's get out of here. You have to talk with the manager about something, right?"

We got out of our seats to search for the guy in question. Together, we navigated the increasingly crowded restaurant to the kitchen doors. James stood watch, chatting with an employee until he saw us.

"Good, I was just looking for you. Let's talk about your gigs."

Here was my chance to pitch! I breathed in deep; it was an announcement that I hadn't even admitted to myself, because it sounded too good to be true. "I have a full album of songs coming up. A couple of them I've sung here already, but most of them are new. I've experimented with adding bass and drums too, to vary my songs. I can take any of the big slots that you have for next week, including the three-hours one."

James whistled. "Huh. Impressive. You've played here a lot already, though."

I nodded. "I hadn't been able to fill up the bigger slots in your timetable, so I want to try now."

His shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. "Listen Tai, I hate to break it to you, but you've been here enough that our regulars know all of your songs. You're a good musician! You have talent. But you see, it doesn't hurt to have a new guy come in. Fresh faces draw in new customers and..."

His last words were drowned by an electric guitar riff. I turned but couldn't get a good view of the stage. Monty popped in my vision and pointed back towards James. Right. I had to focus. Just a bit more and I could leave the restaurant.

"Sorry, could you repeat that again?" I asked.

James frowned and gave The Look. I might not be great at recognizing emotions, but I did know this one too well: disgust.

It was only a second, but I took a step back.

"We're booked up," he said. "You can come in for maybe one more day but that's it. Good luck elsewhere."

This could not be happening. I relied on this restaurant to pay for my bills! It was the one good fortune I had this month.

"Wait!" I said as he spun on his heel. B-But I thought you said I'd have future gigs here!"

"That was a general statement, not a promise. It was before we got an influx of requests from a variety of artists."

"So you lied?" I asked, confused. I gripped my guitar strap. The textured nylon gave me little comfort.

James crossed his arms. "Please don't accuse me of being deceptive. We didn't sign any contract for future gigs. You're welcome here anytime as long as there's open bookings, which won't be til January. Even then, unless you can bring in new songs that don't all sound the same, I'll be inclined to give other musicians a chance."

Monty stepped in between us. He pointed at James. "Hey, treat my friend with respect. You owe him an explanation longer than two minutes."

"Excuse me? How could you even hear our conversation?"

James pinned me down with a stare that wired my mouth shut. This was the worst kind of spotlight. Heat crept up my cheeks, and my feet were heavy with dread. My thoughts were all jumbled. I tried to connect the wires of logic but they sparked and died out. Monty's mouth moved but his words were drowned out. Somewhere, a woman's amplified voice said something about defiance and asked if the audience was ready. Instruments that reminded me of the tropics played from the speakers.

I thought James liked my songs. This completely contradicted what he said at the beginning of November! And he was giving me another chance in January, but that hinged on meeting his expectations, his preferences--whatever they were.

No. I had to change this. I couldn't handle this cycle of reaching for the top but ending back at the bottom.

Dashing to the washroom, I closed the door and pressed my hand against the wall. Sometimes my power demanded a lot of my energy; other times my adrenaline did the heavy lifting. Today it was the latter. The wall rippled with orange hues. Under my palm, the texture changed from clammy tiles to a dense cotton cloth, like a stage curtain. In my mind's eye, I imagined myself on stage. The curtains swished together, concealing my true self from the audience. When you didn't have anything to see, you relied on your expectations. And when it came to me, it was rock bottom.

Monty knocked on the door. "Yo! Tai! Everything okay?"

I massaged my hand to get rid of the tingling feeling. The wall returned to normal.

I opened the door. Monty crossed his arms and scanned me. "Well, you look fine. Let's get out of here."

"Where's James?"

"That asshole had the nerve to act confused like he didn't know what was going on. He said we weren't invited here anymore. I think he said some bad things about your music too."

Most likely, he'd never want to see me again. At least my power worked. Having people expect nothing from you was relieving in a way; I could keep my knowledge of my own talents like a secret. It made me sad, but I'd rather start fresh elsewhere.

"Hey, wait up!"

I had to leave ASAP. Ignoring Monty, I marched to the restaurant's door, the music of harps and drums pounding my skin like a rainstorm. Every sound, smell and colour were amplified now. I wanted to stay longer and lose myself to the music, but I was suffocating. Every positive thing that had happened in my life seemed to choke me in retribution for my stupidity.

Cold air kissed my bare arms as I ran down the slushy street, the lyrics from that woman's song circling in my head. At some point it had changed to something more mellow.

"I climb up the stairs and I find

Nothing but devastation in sight

Because I'm falling, falling

Falling inside to answer the calling

Falling, falling

Falling inside to answer the calling

That something must be out of our reach

Within the iron fist you preach

I'm falling, falling

And I reach out to find..."