Going to shows alone has never felt as lonely as it has recently. The Broadway is the worst of all the venues I frequent for this feeling, it’s a locus of loneliness. I’ll walk around the block to avoid entering any earlier than I have to. Navigating through the long hallway between booths and bar, past the pool table and photo booth, towards the bathroom, is my least favorite walk in Brooklyn. Even if I run into someone I know on the way, they usually already have a group around them and all I can get in is a hi. Upstairs is worse, the venue empty, cold. I’ll lean against the railing and netting that separates the floor from the stairwell, scrolling on my phone, until the moment the music starts, late, as always. Even seeing my favorite band, I’ll wish I was home.

I wonder if I will see T***** while I am home. It has been over six years since I last saw him, yet he still looms large in my mind. He takes on an overwhelming phantom presence in my head that I cower from, just as I cowered from him throughout middle school and high school. The fear of overstepping into reprisal ingrained in every interaction. It dug deep. Deeper still as it festers in my mind. Maybe if I see him at the Granada I’ll stand up to him unlike that last time I saw him there, the time I apologized. Told him I was sorry for cutting away our ties as he stood silently glaring at me. I hope I never see him again. Never forced to see if the person I have become can withstand the gravity of his presence.