I stood backstage listening to my heartbeat’s crescendo. It was my first time. I watched her prepare herself; sneaking glances at the mirror, checking her makeup, and adjusting her bracelet. She seemed calm, panicking only when an assistant informed that he’d misplaced her headdress.
I looked at my sister. I had watched her growth since our parents died. She was three then. I, ten. An artist now, she was about to perform live, and I saw no nervousness.
She walked into thunderous applause. I stole a peek through the curtains–everything blurred.
I remembered. I had forgotten my spectacles at home.