03-15-2025, 11:31 PM
Ezvin didn’t answer right away. He simply sat there, his guitar still balanced against his leg, fingers absently resting on the strings as he let Cadence’s words settle between them. He had seen moments like this before—the kind where something deep and raw was laid bare—but never quite like this. Not with this much honesty. Not with this much fire.
Cadence wasn’t just a performer. She wasn’t just a musician. She was an artist, in the truest sense of the word.
She wasn’t creating for accolades or for fame. She wasn’t chasing numbers or industry approval. She was building something, brick by brick, forged from pain, passion, and a relentless need to mean something. To herself. To others. To the world.
Finally, Ezvin leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. His expression was thoughtful, but there was something else there too—a quiet admiration, a deep understanding that only came from someone who had spent his life listening. Not just to music, but to people.
“Crazy?” he echoed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “No. Not even close. You’re an artist, Cadence. This is what artists do. We take what we’ve lived through—the beautiful parts, the broken parts, all of it—and we shape it into something that speaks. Something that matters. It’s messy. It’s terrifying. And it’s real.”
His voice softened, but his conviction never wavered.
“You’re not just making music for them—you’re making it for you. This album, this story, this moment? This is you taking ownership of everything that tried to break you and turning it into something that no one can take away.”
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair before letting out a quiet chuckle. “And yeah, it’s going to terrify you. If it didn’t, I’d be worried.”
Ezvin tapped his fingers lightly on the body of his guitar, his mind turning over what she’d said about her past, about her childhood, about the two women who had refused to give up on her. He saw the way her face had changed when she spoke about them—how the pain in her eyes had shifted to something softer, steadier. Love. Gratitude. Purpose.
“You know,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, more introspective, “there’s this thing about middle children. We’re observers. We watch everything, take everything in, because we’re not the firstborn with all the expectations or the youngest with all the attention. We find our place somewhere in between.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching her carefully.
“You remind me of that—not because you’re in the middle of anything, but because you see things differently. You don’t just live inside your music, Cadence. You understand it, in a way most people never will. That’s why your band follows you. That’s why your audience connects to you.”
Ezvin exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. “And that’s why this album is going to be bigger than just another record. Because you’re not afraid to tell the truth. You’re not afraid to shine a light on the dark places and say, ‘Look. This is who I am. And that’s okay.’"
He sat up straighter, his playful smirk returning. “So, no. You’re not going crazy. You’re just doing what every great artist has done before you—walking straight into the fire and daring it to burn you.”
His eyes flicked down to where the flame had flickered above her palm just moments ago. He hadn’t flinched when she’d conjured it, hadn’t reacted at all beyond watching with quiet fascination. It hadn’t shocked him. If anything, it had made perfect sense.
Cadence was fire. Uncontained. Unapologetic. Unstoppable.
Ezvin grinned, shaking his head slightly. “And for the record? I’ve seen plenty of people in this industry lose themselves trying to be what the world wants them to be. If you ask me, you’re doing the opposite. You’re finding yourself. And that?” He spread his hands, his voice rich with certainty. “That’s powerful.”
Then, with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged, he leaned back in his chair and stretched, letting out a content sigh. “But hey, if you really are going crazy, at least you’ll have some damn good music to show for it.”
His grin was teasing, but his eyes held nothing but respect.
Cadence wasn’t just a performer. She wasn’t just a musician. She was an artist, in the truest sense of the word.
She wasn’t creating for accolades or for fame. She wasn’t chasing numbers or industry approval. She was building something, brick by brick, forged from pain, passion, and a relentless need to mean something. To herself. To others. To the world.
Finally, Ezvin leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. His expression was thoughtful, but there was something else there too—a quiet admiration, a deep understanding that only came from someone who had spent his life listening. Not just to music, but to people.
“Crazy?” he echoed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “No. Not even close. You’re an artist, Cadence. This is what artists do. We take what we’ve lived through—the beautiful parts, the broken parts, all of it—and we shape it into something that speaks. Something that matters. It’s messy. It’s terrifying. And it’s real.”
His voice softened, but his conviction never wavered.
“You’re not just making music for them—you’re making it for you. This album, this story, this moment? This is you taking ownership of everything that tried to break you and turning it into something that no one can take away.”
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair before letting out a quiet chuckle. “And yeah, it’s going to terrify you. If it didn’t, I’d be worried.”
Ezvin tapped his fingers lightly on the body of his guitar, his mind turning over what she’d said about her past, about her childhood, about the two women who had refused to give up on her. He saw the way her face had changed when she spoke about them—how the pain in her eyes had shifted to something softer, steadier. Love. Gratitude. Purpose.
“You know,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, more introspective, “there’s this thing about middle children. We’re observers. We watch everything, take everything in, because we’re not the firstborn with all the expectations or the youngest with all the attention. We find our place somewhere in between.”
He tilted his head slightly, watching her carefully.
“You remind me of that—not because you’re in the middle of anything, but because you see things differently. You don’t just live inside your music, Cadence. You understand it, in a way most people never will. That’s why your band follows you. That’s why your audience connects to you.”
Ezvin exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. “And that’s why this album is going to be bigger than just another record. Because you’re not afraid to tell the truth. You’re not afraid to shine a light on the dark places and say, ‘Look. This is who I am. And that’s okay.’"
He sat up straighter, his playful smirk returning. “So, no. You’re not going crazy. You’re just doing what every great artist has done before you—walking straight into the fire and daring it to burn you.”
His eyes flicked down to where the flame had flickered above her palm just moments ago. He hadn’t flinched when she’d conjured it, hadn’t reacted at all beyond watching with quiet fascination. It hadn’t shocked him. If anything, it had made perfect sense.
Cadence was fire. Uncontained. Unapologetic. Unstoppable.
Ezvin grinned, shaking his head slightly. “And for the record? I’ve seen plenty of people in this industry lose themselves trying to be what the world wants them to be. If you ask me, you’re doing the opposite. You’re finding yourself. And that?” He spread his hands, his voice rich with certainty. “That’s powerful.”
Then, with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged, he leaned back in his chair and stretched, letting out a content sigh. “But hey, if you really are going crazy, at least you’ll have some damn good music to show for it.”
His grin was teasing, but his eyes held nothing but respect.