The girl behind the curtain

She stood there, tensely. This moment before the consecutive moments that would follow, gave her ample time to think. And re-think.

She couldn’t believe that she was questioning herself, at this point in time, with only five minutes left for her to step onto that polished, glistening floor, surrounded by a multitude of strangers almost.
Her fingers felt sweaty and moist.

It was her time to seek release from the monotonous background into the limelight. Her moment. Her moment to sing zealously, or croon nervously, but nevertheless, HER moment to do whatsoever she desired to. But here she was, thinking. Hesitating. Second guessing.

“I’m capable.”

These words had kept her going for a long time. But their effect seemed to have faded, that too, at the opportune moment. All that so-called confidence that had been burgeoning, or at least had seemed to have burgeoned, all this while, seemed to be diminishing. At an alarming rate.

The impassive velvet curtains seemed to envelop her into their grasp. At one point she felt as though they would twist her and choke her . How can curtains do that?

No, it was this fear. Baseless fear that was feasting on her spirit, and was preventing her from proving her worth.

Hadn’t she loathed being considered as an option? As a mere backup? Or as a substitute?
She had never reached that zenith of having achieved that one goal, which would ultimately satiate her.

But, here was that chance. It had arrived finally, in all its glory whilst she was on the verge of flipping out.

The incessant murmur of voices was growing louder by the second.

 Mac was waiting on-stage, with his fingers poised on the keys. As she peeped through a crack between the sturdy upholstery, she saw her guitar placed on the side, waiting to be lifted. It looked at her beseechingly.

Hold me, it said. I will help you.

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