Between Takes

I’m wedged into the narrow strip of shade between two production buildings, the kind of place meant for cables and crates, not people trying to breathe. Concrete still warm from the sun. A coil of cords running along the wall like veins. Somewhere nearby, a door opens and closes, voices pass, then fade.

I’ve got my sunglasses on even though my eyes are closed. Headphones snug. Water bottle cool in my palm, fidget ring spinning on my thumb without me noticing. I pace in a short loop, four steps forward, pivot, four back. Same rhythm every time. Regulation before spectacle.

I don’t know who the guest judge is today. I know there is one. I also don’t know if I technically have permission to be here, but no one has stopped me yet. I’ve got my restaurant-style buzzer clipped to my waistband. When it goes off, I go to makeup. Until then, this is borrowed space.

I start with scales. Breath checks. Letting my shoulders drop. Then I slide into it, because my nervous system wants something familiar.

Somebody to Love.

Not the gentle part. The big one.

When the belt comes, it’s smooth. Controlled. That glossy, worked-over sound, like clay rolled and rolled until it shines. No strain. No grit for grit’s sake. Just power moving cleanly through muscle and air. It fills my chest, my ribs, my spine. Not practice. Grounding. Plugging into the outlet.

Around the corner, he hears me.

He’s moving fast at first, halfway between things, ballcap low, sunglasses on. The uniform he’s been wearing for years. He slows without meaning to. Stops. Turns his head.

The sound isn’t reaching for anything. It’s already settled. Confident. Lived-in.

He peeks once. Then again.

He tells himself he’s just curious. He tells himself he’s late. He leans back against the wall anyway, listening longer than planned.

I’m deep in it now, eyes closed, head tipped back, curls loose and wild. Cute jeans, black boots, something punk-goth on top that makes me feel like myself, not like an audition number. I hit the belt again and it rings, smooth and sure, bouncing off concrete and metal.

He exhales, quiet.

He doesn’t want to interrupt. He waits for a breath. Misses it. Waits again. The song keeps carrying itself.

Finally, he steps out.

He stands there for a second, hands in his pockets, nodding almost imperceptibly like the sound is talking him into something. When he reaches out, he hesitates, then taps my shoulder, gentle but deliberate.

I startle. Sharp inhale. Half jump. Then I laugh immediately, bright and reflexive, adrenaline draining as fast as it came.

I pull my headphones down around my neck, push my sunglasses up into my hair.

And there he is.

“Oh my god,” I say, breathless, smiling big. “Hi. I’m so sorry. I was completely gone.”

He smiles like he’s the one who got caught. “Yeah. I figured.”

“I wasn’t being loud, was I?” I ask.

“Only in the best way.”

I’m glowing now, that full-face smile I get when something lands unexpectedly. I tuck a curl behind my ear, then realize another one has fallen forward. Before I can fix it, he reaches out and gently tucks it back for me, quick and careful, like he’s aware of exactly how close that is.

“Sorry,” he says. “Reflex.”

“No,” I say, laughing softly. “That’s okay.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he adds. “I listened for a bit. Hope that’s alright.”

“That’s very alright.”

He tilts his head. “That voice. It reminds me of someone. Not exactly. But the control. It’s settled. Like you know where it lives.”

I duck my head, suddenly shy, smiling so hard it almost hurts. “That’s a really beautiful thing to say.”

He shrugs. “Just calling it like I hear it.”

“I follow you,” I blurt, then laugh. “Online. I agree with you a lot. Not in a creepy way.”

He laughs, genuine. “That’s good to hear.”

“I like how you talk about things,” I say. “It makes me feel less alone in my brain.”

He nods once. “That’s kind of the point.”

I glance at the book sticking out of his jacket pocket. “What are you reading right now?”

He pulls it out, surprised. “Rereading something old. Helps keep me steady.”

“I do that with songs,” I say, tapping my headphones.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I can hear that.”

My buzzer goes off.

A sharp vibration against my hip. Time snapping back into place.

“Oh,” I say. “That’s me. Makeup.”

“Same,” he says. “Different door.”

I unclip the buzzer, still smiling. “It was really nice to meet you. And thanks for not reporting me for hiding back here.”

“If anyone asks,” he says, “you were exactly where you were supposed to be.”

I take a step back, then another, walking backward for a second because I don’t want to break it too fast. I’m grinning now, biting my bottom lip without thinking, cheeks warm, that telltale blush I can never quite control spreading anyway.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Good luck,” he says.

“You too,” I reply, still smiling, then add, “Well. You know.”

I turn and head toward makeup, heart steady, body humming, the song still resonating under my skin like a held note that hasn’t quite faded yet.

Behind me, he adjusts his cap, watches me go, and smiles to himself.

Some moments don’t need applause.

They just need to resolve.