[Intro – spoken quietly, like hiding behind curtains, faint muffled applause far away] Every stage has a shadow. Every curtain hides something that never learned how to bow. They call it Stage Fright. But that name is too polite. [Verse 1 – spoken with playful unease, voice light but unstable] It looks like a child, made of fog and borrowed darkness. Its edges never quite stay together. Its eyes glow red like footlights seen through tears. It wears a costume from a forgotten play. Tattered seams. Painted smile cracking. A role no one remembers but it refuses to stop rehearsing. [Verse 2 – spoken with unsettling affection] Stage Fright loves the crowd. The warmth. The hush before applause. But it hates the spotlight. Hates being seen alone. Hates the way light tells the truth without asking permission. So it hides where performers breathe shallowest. Just before the step forward. Just before the name is called. [Interlude – spoken softly, almost conspiratorial] You feel its fingers first. Cold. Damp. Too small. It slips its hand into yours as you’re about to step into the light. As if you invited it. [Verse 3 – spoken closer, overlapping the listener’s thoughts] It whispers worries you never taught it. Every doubt you folded away. Every line you fear forgetting. Every silence you imagine stretching too long. “What if they laugh?” “What if they see?” “What if you were never meant to be here?” It knows the words because they were already living in your heart. [Verse 4 – spoken with trembling urgency, childlike and desperate] Stage Fright does not want to stop you. It just doesn’t want to be left behind. It squeezes tighter as the spotlight blooms. As the world waits. It doesn’t pull you back. It begs to come with you. [Final Warning – spoken low, steady, and absolute] When the fog-child takes your hand, when the curtain rises, when the light finds you at last… Do not let go.
