Rock Stars and Nerves

The day had finally arrived, and Nero wasn't sure if he was ready. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his guitar like it was a ticking time bomb. His stomach was doing flips, and his heart was hammering so hard in his chest he thought it might just leap out and run for the exit.

Tonight wasn't just any night—it was the big event where Nero would be performing in front of a real crowd. Not just the usual casual audience at Charlie's house, but an open mic night where people actually paid attention. He'd practiced his song over and over again, but now that showtime was looming, everything felt shaky. What if his voice cracked? What if the crowd stared blankly at him like he was performing at the wrong gig?

"Why did I agree to this? Maybe I should fake a sprained wrist" Nero muttered to himself, rubbing his face.

Just as Nero felt himself spiraling further into panic, Charlie strolled into the room, his signature Bowling shirt half-unbuttoned, a carefree grin plastered on his face. "You ready, kid? Or should I grab my car keys and stage a kidnapping?"

Nero exhaled a shaky breath. "I don't think I can do this, Charlie."

Charlie leaned against the doorframe, sipping his beer like it was any other lazy afternoon. "Oh, you're gonna be fine. Everyone feels like they're gonna hurl before their first big performance. Me? First time I performed, I choked on gum, tripped over the mic stand, and still managed to hit on the bartender. True talent."

Nero raised an eyebrow. "You? Nervous?"

Charlie laughed. "Yeah, well, I had tequila to help. But trust me, even pros get the jitters. You screw up, people laugh, you laugh, and then you keep going. And hey, if it goes bad enough, at least you've got a great story for poker night."

Despite himself, Nero cracked a smile. "What if I mess up?"

Charlie shrugged, nonchalant as ever. "You probably will. But that's part of the fun. People don't care about perfect. They care about feeling something. You've been working hard on that song, and trust me, people are gonna feel it. Besides, worst-case scenario? Berta heckles you for life. Win-win."

Nero glanced at his guitar again, his nerves still gnawing at him. Charlie's laid-back attitude was contagious, but his mind was still racing. "I don't know, man..."

Charlie slapped a reassuring hand on Nero's shoulder. "Look, Berta and I will be right there, pretending we're sober and cheering you on. It's one song. You'll be back here overthinking everything in no time."

"Thanks, I think," Nero muttered, his anxiety easing just a little.

Charlie winked. "No problem. Now grab your gear. Let's go make you a rock star."

When they arrived at the venue, Nero's nerves kicked into high gear. The place was packed—way more than he'd expected for a casual open mic night. People crowded around tables, chatting and laughing, while a few musicians tuned their guitars on stage.

Charlie looked around, grinning. "Now this," he said, rubbing his hands together, "this is where bad ideas go to party. You're gonna be great. Worst case, you bomb, and I pretend not to know you. No biggie."

Nero wasn't convinced. His hands were clammy, and the noise seemed to rise like a wave. Each step toward the stage made him feel like he was sinking into the floor. Berta walked in behind them, already giving the crowd her trademark skeptical look.

They found a table near the back, and Berta turned to Nero with a deadpan expression. "Relax, kid. It's just a song. If it was brain surgery, you'd be in trouble. But it's not, so you're fine."

Charlie nodded sagely. "She's right. Now, if I were singing? Different story. You'd be responsible for the casualties."

Nero glanced at the stage nervously. "What if I choke? What if I forget the lyrics?"

Charlie leaned in, whispering like he was sharing a top-secret life hack. "Here's what you do. Imagine the whole audience in their underwear. Works every time."

Nero blinked at him. "Does that actually work?"

Charlie shrugged. "Not really, but it's hilarious. Just don't picture Berta in hers—might throw you off."

Berta, overhearing, smacked Charlie upside the head. "Watch it, Harper. You're already on thin ice."

Despite the nerves gnawing at him, Nero couldn't help but laugh. The absurdity of it all lightened the mood, and for a moment, the crowd didn't seem so terrifying.

Finally, the host called his name. Nero's stomach dropped. This was it—time to sink or swim.

Charlie leaned in and gave him a nudge. "Go show 'em what you've got, kid."

Nero's legs felt like jelly as he made his way to the stage. The spotlight hit him, and suddenly, the crowd seemed bigger, louder, more daunting. He adjusted the mic, feeling his hands tremble as he positioned his guitar.

For a moment, the room went silent. Every eye in the place was on him, and his mind went blank. But then, he hit the first note. It was shaky at first, but as his fingers settled into the melody, something inside him clicked. The nerves began to melt away, replaced by the music that had always been his escape.

Nero closed his eyes and let the words come.

"When the days are cold

And the cards all fold

And the saints we see

Are all made of gold…"

His voice was soft at first, uncertain. But as he reached the chorus, his voice grew stronger, the weight of the song pulling him deeper into the performance.

"Don't get too close, it's dark inside,

It's where my demons hide,

It's where my demons hide…"

The melody resonated through the room, and Nero felt the words pulling him forward, releasing the tension in his chest with every line.

The crowd, which had been chatting and fidgeting earlier, fell completely silent. They were listening. Actually listening. Nero could feel the energy in the room shift as the lyrics carried him through the song.

When the last chord rang out, there was a brief, stunned silence, like the audience was processing what they had just heard. Then, the applause hit him like a wave, so much louder than he expected. Nero blinked in surprise as he stood, giving a shy bow. The clapping grew louder, a few people even standing to cheer.

He hurried offstage, his heart still pounding. He wasn't sure if he was more relieved or stunned, but one thing was certain—he'd done it.

Charlie and Berta were waiting for him at the back of the room, both looking more pleased than they had any right to be.

Charlie clapped him on the back, grinning ear to ear. "See? I told you—you nailed it. Rock star in the making."

Berta, with her arms crossed, gave a short nod. "Not bad, kid. No tomatoes thrown. I'd call that a win."

Nero's head was still spinning, but he smiled. A few strangers even came up, congratulating him on the song, telling him how much they loved his voice. Nero muttered his thank-yous, still not sure how to handle the praise.

Charlie leaned over, flashing that classic Charlie Harper grin. "See? You pour your heart out, people eat it up. Just don't let it go to your head—otherwise you'll end up like me."

Nero laughed, feeling lighter than he had in days. Maybe this was the beginning of something bigger, or maybe it was just one night. But for the first time in a long time, Nero felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.