Lyla’s voice begins to tip up into a long, eight-beat note, the penultimate moment of her ballad, and I lift my gaze as if surprised. As the note lingers, my long-held bored expression slowly cracks. As if I’ve spent years watching nobodies, hoping to find that lost treasure, weary and exhausted as I work this lonely road. And then, suddenly, I’ve found it. My fingers slowly drop from the tablet as if I’m not even aware of them, as if they are doing what they are meant to do on their own: find and press against my chest. My heart. Because this woman onstage is it. She is the one. Honestly. I
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I was about to say that
