This is my escape, my reprieve-this is where the tumultuous roar inside my head is silenced, where I can lose myself in the notes and let go, if only for a while, of the burden I am carrying. For 

s falling across a shoulder, and I can even from this distance see the way her hazel eyes shine with something - maybe curiosity or a secret she's not quite ready to spill. She has a b

tilting forward on tiptoes: "Good evening, you all," I say, my inflection sandpapery more than

ds the tables like a caress, and I close my eyes and let the music have me. But as the song hits its halfway point, I get that feeling - a pull, as if someone is looking at me, b

he'd spotted more than the guy with the guitar. I shake it off as I go back to reading the setlist. Then the next is a cover, something lively and fun to keep the pace, but as I start play

kay? She feels somehow fragile, like a wounded bird with a broken wing, but she's struggling to fly anyway.

he's drawing, her chin tucked down but her eyes flick to mine for a second. There is a question

them, sounding a little bit closer to normal.

ine above the paper. She blushes and looks down, but not before I see the smile in the c

one or someone who is storm when they look at you like the ocean, a heart full of dreams, and a smile that can make it all make sense

eyes. She's keeping something from me, and I know it-something amazing, something she doesn't want to burden the world with. But rig

g - a cue, an indication. She folds her sketchbook and clutches it to her arm, and then stands up, the scarf falling from one shoulder. I believe for a second she'

s you, still light, yet hard

parched. "You're w

ng I suppose. A smiling man with a guitar, or a man haunted by

hy is that?" I blurt out, the words tumbl

I'd be so grateful for that," she says, and something i

he crowd, but I'm still with her - on the way she looked at me, on the cough she tried to cover, on the smile that was a gift. Don't have a sense of h

e she's just on the verge of tears. There's something hard in her, down somewhere, but you've got to look for it,

ack up my kit, I can't help but look over at her table. She's back sitting, sketchbook out once more, pencil making broad, c

afé. But as I slung my guitar over my back and left the stage, I knew that it was not. There was somet

r shaking hand and I think about it-what if she's hiding something