When voices merge, what remains of the self? Our writer finds herself in a space where voices rise together. But next to her, a quiet stranger. Between them: an unspoken pull. This essay lingers in the tension of a fleeting moment – pressed between the urge to sing and the weight of silence.

You come over and sit next to me. Now I am surrounded. Surrounded or enclosed?

We are sitting on large wooden stage blocks, our backs leaning against the wall. Tonight, a loyal audience has gathered in the room, the type of crowd that frequently is watching but just as often takes on the role of performer itself. In the buzz around me I recognize faces, a smile here, a silhouette there. Tonight, a community comes together, where I am no longer a stranger.

You are new here. You aren't a total stranger, you probably recognize a few faces as well, but at this specific location – turn right through the gate, away from the stream of tourists, be quiet in the courtyard garden, go up a flight of stairs – you have never been before.

I am here with a friend, sitting to my left. We’ve been hanging around in relaxed anticipation of what is to come. Well, I was relaxed, until you entered the scene.

You come over and sit next to me. We don’t touch. Out of all the breath exchanged here, the shimmering outfits people are wearing, the invigorating scent of lime mixed with mezcal, the magenta light softly stroking along the walls, out of all these impressions and presences, it’s the in-between space. Those very few inches between the silk of my blouse and the crispy nylon of your coat that makes itself felt the most. I’m embraced by the setting without losing track of that small gap.

My gaze is still facing forward, but I know very well that the distance between us can be measured between thumb and index finger.

I am sitting in the middle. My friend is sitting on the left. You are sitting on the right. At first glance, nothing out of the ordinary. Still, I know that the right feels heavier, that the scales are tilting in that direction. The picture of me evenly between is a deceptive one.

She is coming up. She is the center – not just because she stands in the middle of the open dance floor, surrounded by us. She is the center because she belongs here. Everyone knows her – as what? A teacher, a mother, an elder, a guiding spirit? She has taught so many to embrace chaos, move from the gut, and make sounds that are wild and whimsical.

I want to let you know who she is and quickly mumble her name into your ear. I haven't been around for that long, this will be the first time I’ll see her perform.

She is playing an instrument I don't recognize, housed in a modest square box made of wood. With a gentle opening and closing, air is moving through, feeding into a drone that fills up the room. The elongated sound accompanies her voice. Together they are sounding tender and supple. It’s a foundational sounding, no frills. She asks our voices to join in with her, in a repeating pattern. It’s a low-key invitation to let many voices be heard, to acknowledge togetherness.

Wait a second. Let’s assess the situation. You're sitting next to me, and I already know your voice will not sound. You are not going to participate in this. Your voice is soft-spoken, and rather restrained as mine; I have not been able to catch you on uncontrolled, melodic, or any «loud» sound before. Besides, there are plenty of situations you do not participate in, you move differently: in relation to and outside the group, from your own logic, your own valuation. Sometimes you go on strike.

Yet I cannot, and will not remain silent, even if the scales tip towards you tonight. Between thumb and index finger, that's all it is. She sings, and I want to join in: because I am curious about sounding, because camouflaged by many voices even a hesitant voice can experience what it is like to come out, because I want to sound for her, because I want to be part of the whole and not remain outside of it. Each individual voice plays a role in expanding and enriching the camouflage pattern, creating a sonic palette of belonging for us all.

You and I are also something, though we have not put it into words; an implicit space that I likewise do not want to step out of.

Would I then join you in your silence? No. It becomes an arrangement in-between, something broken. In which parts of my body seem to operate independently, in different directions. My gaze is fixed on the center, catching glimpses of the audience at the edges. Yours follows the same path – different peripheries, but we overlap in the middle. My arm tries to sense through silk, and my ear strains for a signal from you. I still have a cold. My vocal cords tremble and then a wavering song escapes my lips.

I hear this wavering, and think, is this all? I hear how other voices undulate through space until they are no longer recognizable as individuals. A wavering is becoming part of a wave. Of course this room will accompany her. I see her radiating out, sounds scattering all around. Right through it all, I hear your silence loud and clear.

My skin wonders what that crispy nylon would feel like.

I think I will never get up again.