I did not expect so many people to be here. Over five hundred men, women, and children are seated in rows that overflow the chapel and extend into the open gymnasium beyond. The accordion doors that usually separate the two rooms are wide open, creating a cathedral-like hall that makes me feel microscopic. I can hear the occasional sound of a cough or a child trying to stay quiet, but it’s all muffled as if I’m under water. Deep under water, and sinking further with every passing minute. The pressure squeezes my chest.

I can’t breathe. What am I doing?

I should have practiced more. I should have asked my brother for a few more sessions before we left. I was so confident back then, but now that I’m here, it feels all too real.

Every night for the past two months, Ethan and I practiced our duet fervently until my voice would become hoarse from all the singing and his fingers would become stiff from the piano. Although we were just kids, we were invited to perform at a regional music concert. It was a rare opportunity for us to shine, so of course we wanted to give it our all. Every run-through we did, we’d fix a few mistakes but always find a few new ones in exchange. Two steps forward and one step back—it was a perpetual cycle of critique and correction.

“Hey Ethan, this beat was too short. Make the pause a little longer so I can have more time to breathe,” I’d say. “Elise, you should make this part louder. It’s the climax and we need everyone to hear you,” he’d say back. Sometimes I found it difficult to swallow my ego and listen to his advice. As siblings, any form of criticism I received from him, even if constructive, kindled my competitive spirit to rebel. “That’s just the way my voice is. Would you rather I sing so loud that my voice cracks and I sound like a teenage boy going through puberty?!” It felt so easy when I was with Ethan in a controlled environment. I may have even acted arrogant. We practiced our song a thousand times and it was perfect.

It’s time. Ethan walks slightly ahead of me and the two of us emerge out of the safe anonymity of the audience and up onto the stage. I can feel a thousand beady eyes following my every move. The air is perfectly still. Ethan settles in behind the grand piano and I take my position in front of the microphone. I start the count in my head.

One, two, three, four.

As my brother hits the first keys, the cavernous hall springs to life with the rich, colorful melody I’ve heard so many times during practice. I can hear the thock thock thock-ing of the piano keys and pedals behind me as my cue gets closer. The lights feel hot on my face. Are they supposed to be that bright? The audience is staring right at me. Thousands of eyes.

Five, six, seven, eight.

I take a deep breath in and fill my lungs with air.

Now.

I open my mouth...but nothing comes out. In a flash, my mind disappears.

Oh, no.

Ethan slows the piano down for a beat as he looks over at me. He knows something is wrong, but he continues onward as he’s been trained to do. The cue that I should have caught is now relentlessly marching forward without me.

One beat past, two beats past…

My eyes dart around the darkness. I don’t know what I’m looking for—maybe I’m hoping the lyrics will magically appear in the air like the captions of a karaoke song. I frantically look from person to person. The beady eyes are penetrating me now. What should I do? What should I do?

Then, all time stops. My whole consciousness lands on a familiar pair of eyes I’ve seen countless times in the past.

“It’s okay, Elise. I know you can do it.”

During our practice sessions, whenever Ethan and I would bicker over each other’s “constructive” criticism, she was always there to restore our confidence. She was always with me at my best times and my worst. She understood everything about me, and remarkably she still believed in me. Though I never realized it until now, Mom’s familiar eyes had become my saving grace.

I fix my attention on Mom. Everything else fades away and only the two of us are in this room together. She must be able to see my obvious desperation, but her face shows no sign of nervousness, only warmth. Even at a distance, I can sense her gently mouthing the words to me as she has always done whenever I’d forget my lyrics.

I know this song. It’s not too late.

I take note of where Ethan is, calculate my next cue, and take one more deep breath.

Let’s go.

My voice flows into the microphone and the amplified sound echoes throughout the whole hall. Pitch perfect. Immediately, I can feel the tension focused on me begin to dissipate. Verse after verse, Ethan and I flawlessly ride through the rest of the song until we reach the end. His last note and my last syllable linger in the air.

A moment of reflective silence. Then, the entire audience rises to their feet in applause. I spin to look at Ethan. He grins at me. Collectively, we think the same thing.

We did it.

A month later, I feel like I’m under water again. A muffled announcer calls out, “Fantaisie Impromptu, Op. 66.” I walk onto the stage. I turn to face the audience and bow as I’ve rehearsed. As I look up, seated in the middle of the front row, I see a familiar face. She watches me patiently and gives me a reassuring nod. Gradually, the pressure on my chest melts away and I feel like I can breathe once more.

I am not alone.

I’ve done this before, and I’ll do it again.