Buzz, buzz.
Buzz, buzz.
A low murmur stirred in his ears, rippling like the gentle flow of a hot spring. It caught Ronan off guard, making him blink quickly to hide the tears that hadn't yet had time to well up. He closed his eyes, masking his fluster as the ethereal state of creation snapped back to reality.
His heels slowly settled, and he felt the faint wobble of the table beneath him. Only then did it hit him—he'd been standing on a shaky table, belting out a song like some kind of lunatic. Shame surged in a beat too late, crashing over him and drowning him in an instant.
On a stage, under the glow of lights, Ronan could slip into performance mode effortlessly, like stepping into another self. But pulling that off in real life, anytime, anywhere? For the current Ronan, that was still tough. He couldn't lose himself completely like that.
After all, this wasn't the life he'd been used to in his past.
His cheeks flushed hot. Embarrassment hit hard, followed by a wave of self-doubt: What ridiculous thing did I just do in front of everyone?
So now what? Could he call up Spider-Man, the friendly neighborhood hero, to swing in and whisk him away?
He stood there, frozen for a moment, realizing no superhero was coming to save him. Bracing himself, he opened his eyes, ready to step off the table. But as his knees bent slightly, before he could even move, his muscles locked up again. Something about the scattered sounds around him felt… off.
Clap.
Clap, clap, clap.
Clap, clap, clap!
Was that… applause?
Ronan wasn't sure. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes wider. Sparse claps rippled around him, mixed with whistles and cheers. Words like "Amazing!" "One more!" "Nice job!" "Woo-hoo!" and "Well done!" floated to his ears on the breeze, tugging his gaze outward.
And there they were—about twenty or thirty people scattered around the street nearby.
It wasn't a big crowd. Some were lining up at the hot dog stand, others were stragglers heading home after the party, and a few were early risers out for a jog or a stroll. Just a loose patchwork of passersby, nothing grand.
But every single one of them was looking at Ronan. The sincerity and joy in their eyes couldn't lie, sparkling under the golden sunlight like waves on a lake. Their busy steps slowed, drawn by the song, gathering closer bit by bit. They became an audience to his stage, offering applause—spontaneous and real.
Ronan felt a little overwhelmed, almost undeserving.
This was different. Not a bar tour, not a full moon party—just singing on a street corner. And yet, they'd stopped for him. Could this count as them coming specifically to see him perform?
He wasn't sure.
He'd heard about it before—in movies, TV shows, interviews—people performing on the street, passersby pausing to listen, then cheering and clapping without holding back.
To Ronan, that had always been hard to picture.
Street performances weren't like formal shows. The people walking by weren't there for the act—they had their own lives, their own schedules. Yet they chose to stop. That alone was rare. And then to hold their attention, to make them stay in the noisy chaos and feel the emotion of the performance? That was another challenge entirely.
It wasn't a ticketed deal, a guaranteed exchange. It was just following your heart—raw, honest, and brutal.
No one had to stop for a street performance. No one had to clap. It was all voluntary, chaotic, and free.
Even just imagining it, Ronan could feel the difficulty, the grind. Shame, nerves, and a lack of confidence convinced him he'd never pull it off. He'd brushed it off as impossible, something to avoid without a second thought.
But… now! Right here! Right now! He'd actually done it—unintentionally—and earned applause and cheers? With a song he'd created on the spot, a melody from his heart, winning their love and support?
An indescribable sense of achievement and happiness swelled in his chest. It was like a dream flashing back to the full moon party stage a few hours ago, but even more special.
A smile flowed naturally from his eyes.
Sure, there was still some stiffness and unease—his tense muscles gave him away. If he hadn't been so lost in the thrill of creating that melody, if he'd kept even a shred of reason, he'd never have done this. But Ronan straightened up, opened his chest, and faced the applause that belonged to him. He placed his right hand on his left shoulder and bowed with a smile, a gesture of thanks and respect, like he was on a Broadway stage.
To the left—one bow.
To the right—one bow.
Gradually, his feet found their balance again. His full chest steadied his steps, and confidence grew. Finally, he faced the center and bowed once more.
Clap, clap, clap!
Clap, clap, clap!
The applause stayed sparse, too few to build a roar, but Ronan loved this moment all the same.
He loved it—this scene told him that in real life, everyone really was chasing the light. Even the smallest joys, the little certainties—people sought them out in their own way, finding their own moments in ordinary days. It felt real to him.
Watching Ronan take his serious curtain call, Maxim couldn't help but chuckle. Standing on that rickety table looked a bit silly, but there was no mockery in it. He genuinely felt that simple, honest joy. Music could be this straightforward.
Ollie tilted his head back, gazing at Ronan against the backlight. He didn't seem to care that his head might topple off any second. Lost in the happiness, he shouted, jumped, and howled, throwing his whole body into expressing his raw, unfiltered excitement.
Then, after his bows, Ronan leaped down from the table. His knees wobbled slightly—he nearly didn't stick the landing. After over forty-eight hours without sleep, the world felt hazy, even the sunlight swaying.
"Haha!" Ronan laughed heartily.
"Hey, man!" Before he could fully steady himself, two college-aged guys rushed over, grinning ear to ear. "That song was awesome! Can you tell us the name?"