Backstage, the air is different. Sweat. Rosin. The sharp sting of tape pulled too tight over tired joints. I press my palms flat against my thighs, feeling the tremble in my own fingers.

Through the velvet curtains, I hear the murmur of a thousand voices settling into their seats. The scrape of dress shoes against marble. The rustle of programs.

My stomach knots.

A hand lands on my shoulder—firm, correcting my posture before I even realize I've slouched.

The lights dim. The murmur dies.

I step forward. The velvet parts.

And the spotlight finds me.