Dev read the page

Dev read the page. That's the bit I'll keep picking at.

The Moleskine flew out of my back pocket on the landing at the top of the stairs, and it landed open to a heading I'd written in blocky capitals, THE PANIC ATTACK (TAKE 2), and the only person who bent down to pick it up was the same Dev who'd put his hand on my shoulder after the Day 2 bomb and not said anything then either. Two of my worst moments handed back to me by the same bloke in complete silence. I stood there for what felt like ten minutes wanting to be anyone.

Then I went on third and did the bit. The room went quiet for the first beat — proper quiet, the kind where you can hear the bar fridge downstairs — and then a woman in the front row, Priya, glasses, didn't catch her surname, laughed first. A cracked one. The recognition one. After her the rest followed like she was giving them permission. I came down the stairs with my hands shaking and blood on my trouser knee and stood in the rain trying to light a cigarette and the lighter failed twice. I let it fail the second time, I think. Just so I had something small to be angry at instead of the big thing.

The Camden room after that was tissue paper. Cleaned the Radox bit, plug-pull moment and all, polite applause. Pryce was headlining, tanned off the Antwerp sun, running a new Belgian waffles thing with a fifteen-second aside about bravery being panic with a podcast deal. I sat in my seat thinking he means me and I'm still not sure if that's flattering or a dig.