The crowd is buzzing quietly while two students stand on the stage, finishing up their introduction.

I’m on the left of the stage, hunching over my guitar, Wulfric, and making sure that the capo is firmly on the 9th fret.

The blood is rushing through my ears and I can’t hear anything that they’re saying; I just watch them until they motion in my direction.

Smiling softly, I walk over and plug in Wulfric before sitting myself on the uncomfortable high stool.

The photography teacher, Mr. Boyd, helps position the microphone in front of my face. He fiddles with the microphone’s stand and I grip my green star-cut pick in my right hand.

“Can I go?” I ask quietly to him, wondering if the sound people were ready for me.

The crowd laughs and I realize that they could hear me perfectly. Heat rushes to my face and I smile uncomfortably at the audience.

Mr. Boyd nods and my and I hunch over my guitar to begin my harsh, palm-muted intro. It seemed to go far to fast and before I knew it I was singing into the microphone, all of my worries completely gone.

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All of a sudden, the song is over and my worries are back.
Every single insecurity and trouble weigh come rushing into my body and I sigh in disappointment.
It always ends too soon.

But the crowd still cheers.

I smile awkwardly and look up at the sound board, making sure I can unplug my guitar without messing with the amplifiers.

The song is over, and all I can think to myself is:

When can I play again?