Back to the Beat

The excitement had been building up all week. Tonight was the first of two concerts I’d planned to attend, a bit of an experiment to see if I still had it in me. I didn’t know 80% of this artist’s songs, but that didn’t matter—I was there for the experience, the feeling of being in a crowd, music pulsing through my chest. It had been three long years since my last standing concert, and tonight was about testing my limits, seeing if I could handle the noise, the standing, and the crowd without getting completely wiped out.

But with this chronic illness, preparation was everything. I ate well before leaving, knowing there was no chance I’d find anything I could safely eat once I was out. A full, balanced meal to keep my energy steady, and a few protein bars tucked in my bag just in case. Nervous energy buzzed in me as I got ready, and I felt the mix of anticipation and apprehension. Could I stand the entire time? Would the noise be too much? The old me would have jumped at this night without a second thought. But tonight, I was both excited and a little scared. I could only hope my body would cooperate.

I hurriedly popped a few pills during queue just to make sure I’m set to rummage through the pumping crowd in a bit. A funny looking man of what seemed to be a foreigner caught me and to be honest, stares like that don’t bother me anymore. Did he laugh at me? Like I could care less.

The concert hall was already packed when I arrived. The energy was electric, people buzzing with anticipation, conversations mixing in a low hum that filled the space. The lights dimmed, and the crowd roared as the first beat dropped, sweeping the whole room into a wave of movement. I held back just a bit, limiting my own movements, careful not to burn myself out in the first ten minutes. Even with these little restrictions, I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in a long time. I was part of something again, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, lost in the music.

It was incredible—better than I’d imagined. For a couple of hours, I let myself get swept up in it, just enough to feel free but not enough to wear myself down. I had the best time, and I savored every beat, every flash of the lights, every note that echoed through the hall. I felt like I was reclaiming a part of myself I’d thought was lost forever.

When the show finally ended, I felt a little tired but not drained. I had energy left, a surprising little spark that felt like pure victory. I decided to go for a quick spin through the shopping district nearby, indulging in a little retail therapy to celebrate. Nothing extravagant, just a few small things—a notebook, a bracelet, tiny mementos to remind me of this night.

As I was walking out of the store, I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to my friend, my confidante through all these ups and downs.

“Guess what? I survived a standing concert. And I loved every minute.”

A reply came almost instantly.

“Oh my gosh, Cassie! Look at you, living your best life! I’m so proud of you.”

I could practically hear her excitement through the screen. She’d been there since day one of my diagnosis, through every doctor’s appointment and every day spent in bed when it felt like I’d never have a normal life again. And now, here I was, back at a concert, standing, moving, even going for a little shopping after. It felt like a victory, one small but solid win.

The night air felt cool as I made my way back, the streets still alive with people and lights. It was a perfect ending to the evening, a reminder that even with all the changes in my life, some parts of me were still here, ready to take back the pieces bit by bit. I didn’t need to dance wildly or sing every lyric to have a great night. I just needed to be here, standing, living, in the middle of it all.

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