Oh my God, my fly is open. This whole time, my fly has been open.

I want him to notice me and I don’t want him to notice me and I want him to notice me and I don’t want him to notice me and I guess what I’m saying is I don’t know what I want.

Who am I kidding? I WANT JOE.

Here come the fireworks. We build and build with our voices, and then we hit the heights—

I will get better at this, Tyrone. Thank you for helping me figure out that the way a guy treats you is much more important than how he makes your heart race.

I am not afraid to sing for my father here. He is not afraid to listen. I am proud of our peace because it is something I made.

Joe’s hand is opening. Getting closer. He’s smiling at me as he’s singing. Singing to me. I’m not imagining this, am I? He wants me to take his hand, doesn’t he? I must move my hand. Is this really happening?

Silly rabbit. It took you long enough to go the shortest amount of space. It took you long enough to hear me singing to you.

Holding hands with Joe. Everyone can see I’m holding hands with Joe. Or maybe nobody can see I’m holding hands with Joe. But definitely Joe can see that I am holding hands with Joe. And he is not letting go. No, neither one of us is letting go.

I don’t have any friends out there in the audience. But that’s because I have so many of them on stage with me. That’s what I love about the choir: we are all in this together.

Bring it home. Bring it on home.

We are so much louder together than apart. We are so much brighter together than apart.

I am a part of this. I am making this.

We are making this.

I am the sound I create. I add the sound I create.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Follow the sound of my voice.

I love this song when we sing it.

This is what it feels like, to be alive. We sing to be fully alive.

When I die, I hope it’s somewhere cool, like a Mogwai gig. In fairness, this is never going to happen unless I somehow get over my anxiety about social situations, crowds, enclosed places and just being outside in general. So it’ll probably be at Trafalgar Records. Or the Oxfam on North Street. Maybe I’ll find a pristine first pressing of ‘Please Please Me’ by the Beatles for £1.50 and keel over. That would be pretty cool, but the truth is: I’m probably going to die on the 27 bus. It’s where I spend approximately forty-eight per cent of my time, and you can’t fight those odds.

That’s where I first saw it, on the top deck of the 27 bus. It was four o’clock and that weird mid-point between sunset and it getting dark so the sky was the colour of the Hounds of Love album cover. (If you don’t get that reference, I feel sorry for you, which is saying something. Pity from a sixteen-year-old girl who is either on the bus or in her room is pretty pathetic.) Anyway, I’m on the bus. The sky is purple and pink, all at once, and I’m listening to Sigur Rós. I have the top deck to myself, which is perfect because, let’s be honest, people suck, don’t they? They’re either in your way or you’re in theirs and they talk too much.