Every musician in the Green Room Lounge that Thursday night had a story. Jake thumbed his bass strings idly, watching condensation race down his beer. Across from him, Melissa adjusted her saxophone reed for the fifth time, a nervous habit she’d never shake.
“You know what my grandpa used to say?” Jake spoke up. “He’d say every musician’s got a tear in their soul. That’s where the good stuff comes from.”
Melissa snorted. “Your grandpa sounds like he wrote greeting cards for a living.”
“Piano tuner, actually,” Jake grinned. “But he wasn’t wrong.”
The door swung open and in walked their drummer, Marcus, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses despite it being 9 PM indoors. The universal sign of either a hangover or a fresh breakup. Tonight, it was both.
“She took the cat,” was all he said, slumping into a chair.
“Not Sir Purrs-a-Lot?” Melissa gasped.
“The very same,” Marcus confirmed, removing his sunglasses to reveal impressively bloodshot eyes. “Said I couldn’t take care of a houseplant, let alone a cat.”
“To be fair,” Jake pointed out, “you did kill that cactus I got you.”
“It was thirsty!”
Their conversation paused as the singer for the opening act hit a particularly sour note that somehow penetrated the backstage walls.
“Well, at least someone out there’s in more pain than you,” Melissa said, patting Marcus’s shoulder.
The club owner poked his head in. “You’re on in five.”
They gathered their instruments, that familiar pre-show electricity cutting through the various heartbreaks, unpaid bills, and existential crises they each carried.
“You know,” Jake said as they headed toward the stage, “maybe that tear in the soul thing isn’t so bad. Makes good fertilizer.”
Marcus adjusted his drum key. “For what? More tears?”
“Nah,” Jake smiled, hearing the crowd’s chatter grow louder. “For whatever comes next.”
As they stepped onto the stage, the lights hit their faces, and for a moment, that hidden tear in each of them caught the glow—before the first note transformed it into something else entirely.
