When you meet the man, he holds a presence about him that’s nervous with a caution of someone with only the desire to connect with strangers and leave a positive mark on their lives. He’s standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, knitted beanie covering most of his hair, speaking quietly with the person standing first in line. You’re shaking – mostly from the excitement, but also in an inability to speak properly, holding your prized possession – a small notebook – in your hands. You’ve thought and strategically planned this moment for months, playing out the scenarios in your head while staring at the ceiling late at night, playing his music on loop in the background while a ceiling fan quietly creaks with your thoughts.

Your best friend stands beside you, watching your thumbs press into the silvery cover, your eyes down. They’re here for support, quietly reassuring you with a gentle smile.

Suddenly, he’s asking how you’re doing. It’s a simple question, but all you can think about is how to tell him how much his work means to you without sounding like another one of his fans, gushing about the years his music has improved, and how mind-blowingly relevant he seems to you and every other young person in your generation. You’re speechless, or, well, you’d like to be, but you’re nervous and he’s nervous in return, not sure how to approach the fact that you’re fidgeting, stuttering out your words.

It’s an awkward exchange, but he’s polite, and there’s an air about him that resonates a certain calmness and ease despite the exchange, and when you ask him to sign your notebook, your prized possession, given to you by a dear friend, he carefully looks for an open page and begins to doodle, asking for your name. When he hands it back, he thanks you for being here, standing in front of him, sharing space, and there’s a certain something in his tone that lets you know that he’s being genuine.

You snag a picture, and really, how can you stop from smiling at something so quirky and personal drawn in your journal?

He hopes you enjoy the reading and the show to follow. You can only nod quietly; he’s caught your tongue. Of course you’re going to enjoy his show, you’d bought tickets the day he announced the tour.

He’s your hero.

When you sit and gather your thoughts before sheepishly returning and asking for a signature on a copy of his book just moments later, you find the smallest courage to tell him you’re a poet and that his work has influenced your own work. Without a beat and while signing the book to you, he tells you to never stop writing.

When he hands the paperback copy back to you, you’re certain you’re probably blushing as you avoid his gaze and quietly thank him with a smile before scurrying back to your seat.

And when he sits cross-legged on that stage and asks for questions about his work and his progress as a writer, he opens up like a summer breeze through open windows on a warm day; and he seems to relax into the moment like he’s slipping into a favorite pair of jeans. When he speaks, he does so thoughtfully and personally, referencing Shakespeare and unavoidable existential crises; of anxiety and feeling small; of being human and fearing death; sprinkling advice and personal experience over thoughtful remarks.

And when he reads, it’s obvious he’s a spoken word poet, writing from that lens. His dialogue makes sense now, and he has an easy reading voice, like that of the one that raps fast over looping rhythms bars.

And when he looks, he recognizes some of the people here, saying hello to faces he knows from experience. He welcomes honesty and respect throughout the intimate and humble sharing of personal essays. You know everyone in the room is hanging onto every single word.

And when he leaves, there room begins to pile full of his fans, waiting for the concert to start. Your bag is full of treasured merch. You know it’s mostly every penny you have for the next week or so, but you can’t be bothered to care.

And while you wait for him to come on stage, the excitement in the air becomes intoxicating. The headliners rile the crowd, coaxing and pulling energy from every throat. Tired feet bounce to foreign tunes. Souls are being poured out between artist and the fan who’s memorized every line of their song.

They reach out and touch. The words and moment linger between them, imprinted in a memory.

And though you think he’s about to come back, his band teases you. Earn him, they say, coaxing every scream from your throat and the crowd pushes a little closer to the stage, hanging on every second.

And when he arrives, you scream until your throat runs hoarse. Every moment and bob holds all the energy you can muster, while he spits on the mic and moves the crowd on his fingers. You know he belongs here and he’s enjoying himself, giving you chills.

And he trusts the crowd when he walks on their hands, holding him up. You feel alive in the moment and gasp out his lyrics from memorizing his album, and those people in the building are all together in adoration and respect; there isn’t a kinder group of one thousand people gathered in one space before.

And they love him just as you do, care for his well-being and respect his limits. Some throw candy, others throw jokes, and he takes them in stride. He’s breathing just as hard as you are, performing with every ounce of his being.

And when it stops…

You manage to stumble out of the venue with your best friend in tow, and when you tilt your head back to stare at the stars and pour out your heart and talk about the last three hours in excitement while guiding yourselves back to your car...

You know that those moments are going to change your life…

And they do.