There was only a second after the last tone died away before the audience started making enough noise to be heard across town. He was there, on the stage, all the spotlights on him in the otherwise dark hall, and all five hundred people in the room stood up and rejoiced in a deafening roar of applause and whistles and shouts. 

I felt tears well up in my eyes and I shouted with everyone else, so immensely in love with the boy on the stage that I didn't know what to do with myself. He was so perfect. His voice had captured not only me, but hundreds of others.

The orchestra continued playing and everyone participating in the concert came on stage, surrounding him. He looked out over the sea of people screaming his name and waving their hands in the air to get his attention. But his eyes didn't stop wandering. He looked so pleased, so happy, so proud of himself, so mischievous. 

I wanted so badly to be his.

Then, when his eyes floated over the section in which I was seated, they suddenly stopped, fixated. He looked my way. And then he closed his eyes and smiled. 

I'm sure it was just a coincidence, I'm sure he didn't see me. But I couldn't help the butterflies that started batting their wings erratically in my stomach.

Before I knew it, people were streaming out the doors and I was swept away with the flood of bodies, longer away from him.

Of course I knew that I had to leave. The concert was over. But I still felt an odd sensation of loss as I watched him laugh and hug the others on the stage, further and further away from me.

I didn't want to leave. But I knew that I had to.

We never got close enough. I was always the spectator, someone too far away. And he would always be the one I looked at.