Dario, one of my Metro Records co-workers, is making puppy dog eyes at me. The simpering expression looks hilariously out of place on his beefy, tattooed, six-foot-a-million-inches frame, and I find myself laughing even as I keep telling him no.

“I have too much work to catch up on,” I explain, as he leans against my desk and bats his eyelashes. “You guys go have fun without me. I’ll probably be here until eight at this point.”

“I keep telling Shayla she needs to hire you an assistant. She doesn’t think she’ll find anyone as good as you, though.”

It’s the Friday of my second week working full time at Metro Records. The label is gaining more traction by the hour, which means we’re all swamped, but the energy in this place is addictive. I haven’t regretted my decision to work here even once.

“I can handle it,” I reply, “although you’re not making it any easier by coming over here to bug me every five minutes.”

“I wouldn’t have to bug you if you just agreed to come to the show. It starts at seven-thirty. You could leave here around seven.”

The whole team is going out to some concert tonight. Dario told me it’s a charity fundraiser for ADHD awareness, probably just to guilt me into going, but I really am telling the truth. I’ve got way too much to get done before the weekend to even consider going out tonight.

“What if I do all your photocopies for you?” Dario continues. “And spoon feed you dinner so you don’t have to get up from your desk?”

“Jesus!” I respond. “You really want me to go to this concert, Dario.”

“Everyone is going, Noelle.” He uses the nickname I’ve taken on around the office since Halloween. “Even Shayla. Come on, you can’t stay at this place later than Shayla. She’ll refuse to give up her overachiever crown. She’ll kick you out before she leaves.”

I groan. “You’re not going to give this up, are you?”

He flashes his toothy grin. “Nope.”

“I guess I could leave forty-five minutes earlier than planned, but you really do have to do my photocopies,” I insist, before he can start to celebrate, “and you have to buy me a drink.”

He pounds my desk in victory. “Booyah! I’ll do you one more and pay your cover too.”

I shake my head. “What kind of monster would I be if I refused to pay my own cover at a charity event?”

True to his word, Dario gets all my photocopying done. The rest of the staff have filed out by six, heading home to get ready before we’re due to meet up at the bar where the show is happening. I’ll just be going straight there. Shayla’s office door is still closed at a quarter past seven when I’m throwing my things into my bag. I’m just about to head over and knock to see if she wants to leave together when she opens the door herself.

“Heading to the show?” she asks, shaking her green-tipped hair out of its messy bun.

“Yeah. Should we go together?”

She loops her arm through mine in an extremely un-Shayla-like initiation of physical contact. “Let’s.”

We head towards the nearest metro stop, and I realize she’s humming a Sherbrooke Station song under her breath. Shayla is not the humming type.

“You seem chipper,” I comment. “Good day today?”

“I’m just excited for this show. I think it’s going to be a good one.”

“I don’t even know who’s playing,” I admit.

Shayla gives me a weird smile. “I think you’re going to like him.”

Either she signed some major new band today, or she’s totally on drugs.

She’s oddly animated during the whole metro ride over, smiling at me every few minutes and telling me how glad she is I’m there. She takes my arm again as soon as we get out at our stop—Sherbrooke Station, of all places—and tugs me up the street, complaining about the fact that we’re already late.

“I mean, it’s a show, Shayla,” I protest, as she keeps pulling my arm while I stumble over my feet keeping up with her. “You’re allowed to turn up late.”

Clearly, she’s too punctual and organized to agree. We finally make it to the bar, its patio locked up for the season and dusted with a layer of snow. The inside is packed, though. Even from a few feet away, we can hear the crowd cheering and the muffled sounds of someone speaking into a microphone. I can’t see much past all the people with their backs pressed up against the windows. The chalkboard sign out on the sidewalk only advertises a ‘special event tonight.’

Shayla pulls the door open, and the cheering gets even louder. We each hand the bouncer ten bucks and start clearing our way through the crowd towards the group from Metro Records. The going is slow; it takes at least a minute just to get to the merch table a couple metres ahead.

I spare a glance at the table’s contents while the hype man on stage gets the crowd even more riled up. The guy playing must be a pretty big deal. Most of the merch table is taken up by pamphlets for an organization that supports people living with ADHD, but there’s a stack of CDs for sale in the corner.

I catch sight of the cover art and freeze.

I know that drawing.

It’s my drawing.

“Okay, mesdames et messieurs, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Performing for you tonight, for the very first time as a solo act, please welcome Sherbrooke Station’s very own...JP Bouchard-Guindon!”

I whirl around to face the stage as JP gallops on to the sound of whoops, whistles and thunderous applause. He grabs the mic from the hype man and starts shouting an unintelligible mix of French and English that’s full of such blatant excitement and passion it makes the audience go nuts all over again. He’s wearing a typical JP-esque ensemble: skinny jeans, a Hawaiian shirt, and a black velvet bow tie. He bounces around the stage, slapping the hands of people in the front row and busting out all kinds of retro dance moves. He looks so fucking happy that for a few moments, I forget to be anything but happy too.

All I can do is watch and smile as he tries to say something to the crowd. At this point they’re too loud for him to get an actual message across, so he circles around to the back of the keyboard and starts to play. The cheering dies down enough for his music to fill the room.

The stage is filled with a variety of instruments, and at first I wonder if any backing musicians will come on, but when the few bars’ worth of notes he chimes on the piano continue repeating after he moves over to the drums, I realize he’s using a looper. He’s going to play everything himself.

The effect is breathtaking. He single-handedly builds a wall of sound piece by piece. It’s a complex structure, filled with intricate, overlapping patterns that somehow all come together to form a powerful whole. The music is traditional and unique all at once, a mix of Québécois roots with synth sounds and rock elements all blending together. The first few minutes are just instrumental, and then JP leans towards the microphone and begins to sing.

His voice is deeper than when he speaks, a little rougher around the edges. He sings in French, a mix of drawling vowels and harsh, snappy consonants you can’t help but nod your head to. He gets to the chorus, and I realize this is one of the songs whose titles he gave me to put on the album cover: ‘Have You Ever Wondered What Fish Dream About?’

I don’t know what any of the other words mean, but he sings them with a mix of desperate urgency and haunting honesty that makes me feel like my chest is splitting in half.

I glance at Shayla and find her watching me, a question written on her face. I just shake my head in wonder as JP winds the song down and gets swallowed up by applause once more. He waves and shouts the crowd down until we can finally hear him speak.

“Merci, merci! Merci mille fois!”

A guy’s voice shouts, “You’re sexy!” and I follow the sound to find Ace and the whole Sherbrooke Station crew taking up the front row.

JP lifts his shirt up to show off his stomach.

“And I know it,” he deadpans.

It takes another minute for him to quiet the crowd back down after that.

“Okay, motherfuckers, calm down for five seconds. I have something to say.” He takes a deep breath. “So, I know you all came here to get a piece of this sexiness tonight”—he gestures up and down his body—“but you’re also here to support a good cause. An important cause. One that matters a lot to me personally. I...I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was eight.”

The room goes still. My hand flies to my mouth.

“I always got to told to hide it, to keep it to myself. Even my brothers and sisters didn’t know. In this world, we feel so much pressure to be just like everybody else. We are told to hide anything that could make us seem too different. We’re supposed to be unique, but not too unique. We want to be special, but not the bad kind of special. So we give ourselves a role to play. We give ourselves boundaries to stay inside, where we know we’ll be safe, where we know we’ll be normal.”

He walks out from behind the piano and sits right down on the edge of the stage, like this is his living room and he’s chatting with a few friends.

“Different than doesn’t mean less than. Not everybody fits inside the same boundaries, and if you try to squish yourself into a box that wasn’t built for you, either it will break, or you will. Trust me; I know. So I’m here tonight to tell you that I am different. I don’t learn the way other people do. I don’t think the same way. Stuff that should be easy is hard for me. Sometimes I need help or extra time, but...but I’m not going to let that stop me.”

He stands up. The crowd cheers.

“I’m not going to let it stop me from making my own music.”

More cheering.

“I’m not going to let it stop me from doing anything.”

People start stamping their feet.

“I’m not going to let it stop me from telling someone very special, unique, and different in all the best ways that I was scared and I was wrong, but I’m ready now. I’m ready for me. I’m ready for her. I’m ready for us. I’m ready for everything.”

I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat. I’ve never felt this many things at once. It’s like I’m burning and freezing, floating and falling, imploding and exploding with the sheer force of this moment. The room is almost shaking with sound now, and I don’t realize Dario and Patrick from Metro are beside me until they’re making a chair with their arms and scooping me up inside.

“Back up!” Dario roars at the people in front of us. “Special and unique girl coming through!”

Somehow, they get me all the way up to the front row. It’s a more than surreal moment as the members of my favourite band step aside so I can be lifted up onto the stage. Despite how totally out of it I feel right now, I still have enough self awareness to be a bit embarrassed. I feel my cheeks burn as I think about how many people are looking at me.

The insecurity fades the second JP takes my hand to pull me up out of Patrick and Dario’s arms. In fact, the rest of the room fades away. All the noise and the lights and the faces are gone. There is only us. He pulls me close enough to bring his lips to my ear.

“Molly.”

He says my name the same as ever: Moe-LEE. I feel goose bumps form at the base of my spine.

“I have a lot to say to you, but I can’t say it here.” His breath moves the curls of hair tucked behind my ear, making them tickle my neck. “I meant everything in that speech, though. I’m ready. If you still want this, of course.”

I can’t find the air to answer him. I just bury my face in the crook between his shoulder and neck, nodding against him.

“Is that a yes?”

“Very,” I manage to murmur. “It’s very much a yes.”

We stay like that for a few seconds, until the noise of the room rushes to fill my ears again. JP wraps his fingers around my wrist and spins me around, lifting our joined hands up in front of the crowd.

“Everyone,” he says into the mic, “this is Molly.”

They shout my name back at us, the room a writhing sea of clapping hands. I hear Ace call out, “You’re sexy!” again, and I don’t think this moment could get any more unbelievable, or any more perfect.

“She made the cover for my EP,” JP continues. “She’s also, uh, hopefully going to agree to be my girlfriend very soon.”

The audience cheers again, and Matt leans forward onto the stage to shout, “Kiss her already!”

I look at JP. He looks at me.

Then he does the sassiest mic drop ever and pulls me into his arms. His lips find mine, and it feels like coming home.

We don’t even make it until eleven at the bar. After finishing one of the most impressive sets I’ve ever witnessed, JP makes the obligatory rounds through the room as the place turns into a massive dance party. Everyone makes it their mission to slap him on the back or offer to buy him a drink.

I get my fair share of back slaps and drink offers, too.

We’re quiet, though. JP bypasses his usual dance floor antics and stays near the edge of the room, with me tucked under his arm the whole time. We don’t need shots or crazy break dancing to celebrate; just being near each other is a quiet kind of triumph, the sort that doesn’t need to be proclaimed or commemorated—just felt deep inside you, a sharp heat in your chest like swallowing a star.

After we say goodbye to the few necessary people and slip outside the bar, we walk for blocks and blocks in the snow-covered city. The cold can’t touch us. I don’t even take out my gloves.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I blurt, when we’ve been trudging along in silence for a few moments.

He pauses under a streetlight, hands tapping against his thighs before he clenches his fists and holds them still.

“I should have done it sooner.” He sucks in a breath, like the admission pains him. “I could have saved us so much trouble. I could have stopped myself from hurting you, and Molly, I never wanted to hurt you, but...but is it weird to say I’m glad it took me this long?”

He shakes his head as I wait for him to continue.

“I needed to sort my shit out. I needed to realize how much I had to lose. I talked to my dad, you know? I wouldn’t have been brave enough to do that if I didn’t think I was losing you. Things aren’t...perfect with him, but they’re better. I’m better. I feel so fucking light, Molly. I didn’t know how heavy this was. I told the guys about i—about my ADHD, and you know what? They didn’t care. All they did was ask me if there was any way they could help, and I realized how stupid I had been about the whole thing. Somehow, I thought my best friends were going to look at me different. I thought you were—”

“JP!” I can’t stop myself from interrupting when I see his eyes start to get shiny. My own tears are already sliding down my cheeks.

I step forwards and throw my arms around his neck.

“I was scared.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. “I was scared I wasn’t enough. That’s why I didn’t talk to you before tonight. I wanted to prove I was ready.”

“You’re enough.” I press my lips to the corner of his mouth. “You’re more than enough. You always have been. You believe that, right?”

He hesitates, but eventually his hands find my waist as he nods.

“I do. I really do.”

We end up at my apartment, back where it all began.

“Imagine if you’d found the bathroom on the first try,” I say, after opening the door. “I wonder if we ever would have spoken to each other.”

“Molly,” he answers, “I would have found a way to you no matter what. I think that I always will.”

We take our time undressing each other on my bed, my mini lights spilling over our skin. I kiss as much of his skin as I can reach, committing every inch of him to memory. He strokes my back like he’s scared I’ll shatter into a million pieces, like I’ll turn to dust in his hands. He’s so timid that I whisper to him, telling him he won’t break me.

“You’re right,” he answers. “Nothing can break you.”

His body hovers over mine, both of us desperate for that final shift that will join us together. My hands cling to his shoulders, my legs wrapped around his waist. I’m about to murmur a plea when he thrusts his hips towards me, and I feel him fill me all at once. It’s enough to make me gasp and send my eyes rolling back.

“I missed you,” he says through ragged breathing. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.”

We start to move together, our need growing until I’m clawing at his back and his thrusts come hard and fast against me. My pleasure paints pictures behind my eyelids, swirling shapes and colours that I’ll never be able to capture, never have a chance to replicate, because this is the art that only exists when two people breathe fire into each other’s lungs. It’s fast and it’s fleeting, but for the few minutes it ignites us, for the few seconds it burns so bright we feel the melting in our bones, we’re limitless. Immeasurable. No longer just skin on skin, but something more. Something that can never die or be broken.

We’re not just something. We’re everything.