Marcus called one afternoon with an idea.
"There's a benefit concert in Santa Fe next month," he said. "Small venue, all independent artists. No labels, no paparazzi. I think it's the right place for you to play Home to Myself for the first time live."
Maya hesitated. The thought of a crowd—even a small one—still made her stomach knot. But something about the way Marcus said right place made her agree.
The night of the concert, the venue was a converted warehouse lit with strings of warm lights. The audience sat on mismatched chairs and crates, cups of coffee in hand. The air hummed with quiet anticipation, not the deafening roar she remembered from arenas.
Backstage, Marcus squeezed her shoulder. "No expectations. Just tell your story."
When they called her name, she stepped into the glow of a single spotlight, guitar in hand. She started playing the opening chords of Home to Myself, her voice low and steady.
As she sang, the room fell into a deep, attentive silence. No one filmed on their phones. No one shouted requests. They just listened—really listened.
By the final verse, Maya felt the tension in her chest dissolve. She realized she wasn't performing to win anyone's approval. She was sharing something that belonged to her, and that made all the difference.
When the song ended, the applause wasn't explosive, but it was warm and lasting, like waves against the shore. People stood, not to cheer the loudest, but to show they'd been moved.
After the show, strangers came up to tell her what the song meant to them. One woman pressed her hands together and said, "You just sang my life."
Maya walked out into the cool night air with a quiet smile. This was the stage she'd been looking for all along.