When I told you I’d never been to a concert, you stared at me, mouth agape, but you were thin enough you didn’t magically get a double chin. Music was to you what my fat was to me; it’d been a part of your life since you were born, so you couldn’t imagine a time before it. I found music a few years ago when I learned if I turned the volume up loud enough I couldn’t hear myself think. Before that I only ever heard music in passing, when my friends’ radios were on, the split second in the car before Mom changed over to the news station. You discovered fat when you found me and learned that I wasn’t afraid to say it. So music was never my own. Fat was never yours. But you handed me a mixtape and said it was for me and the songs truly did become mine, each a new trip to take, a place to explore. But I’ve never been to a concert.

Remember when you tried to describe it to me? Your boombox in my hands at full blast, the speakers pulsating, sound waves jiggling their way through my arms. I don’t remember how many bands we listened to that day, but you would pause before each song to explain something about the lyrics. When the song was on, you wouldn’t speak at all, your eyes unfocused, and you’d just let it sink in. I learned quickly to imitate you, and soon enough, I craved listening to music with you and wondering if we were thinking the same things.

The boombox couldn’t capture even a fraction of the feeling of live music. No wonder you’d been so insistent on me coming to a show with you. You invited me as soon as you heard The Smiths were performing, came charging into my class, and, before I could even say good morning, you asked if I would come with you. And of course I said yes, because I love The Smiths, but more than that, I love seeing your face when you listen to their music. I’ll have to go to my first concert eventually, so I would love for it to be with you.

The walk from uni was a short one, but the wait was far longer. You insisted on being at the front of the line, so we arrived hours early, and even still, we end up a few rows back from the stage. I wore my shortest skirt, so by the time we’re inside, my thighs had already chafed beyond repair. You held my hand tight in the crowd, your palm warm even through your black fingerless gloves, pulling me close so we didn’t get separated by the crowd. I didn’t mind the chafe, though, because at least I looked like any other fan in the crowd, even if I was the only fat one. The man in front of us looked like he walked out of The Breakfast Club with his knit cardigan complete with elbow patches. The girl he had his arm around had her eyes smudged with black makeup, piercings smattering her face and ears. You tried to push forward, get a bit more space, but they wouldn’t budge. But it’s alright, because I didn’t budge either and my fat ass became our stronghold, our guarantee for room to dance.

People grew restless the longer we wait. I got distracted by the mixing smells of booze and sweat and perfume, unable to think past the cloying scent. So we didn’t talk, just stood, waiting for the music. I passed the time staring at the columns at the side of the stage, at the architecture of a venue that looked more suited for a renaissance play than a crowd of rowdy rock fans. And the rock fans were plentiful. People piled in until I hardly had room to breathe.

But then he was there, striding on stage, and, for a second, everyone went quiet. I took a breath. The sound reached a new height that made me wonder just how my hearing would be the next morning. I screamed too, not as loud as you. There was something funny about it, about everyone losing their minds over a thin man in a blazer. It was all in the way he moved, I realized. He moved around the stage calmly, looking lost in the music, like he was another face the frothing crowd all alone. You tracked him with your eyes and I wished I were the one on stage. I watched him, too, as he took his blazer half way off, sang for a while, put it back on. He swung the cord to his mic around like he was in the middle of a game of double-dutch.

The crowd undulated, pulling and pulling me until my movements weren’t my own. Sweat dripped down the column of my back, but I kept bouncing, singing, and glancing over at you. Your gaze was serious, focused. I wanted to experience music the way you did.

The music was loudest beneath my feet, where it moved from the vibrating floor up through my legs until I couldn’t escape and felt more music than human. I didn’t know music could be so intoxicating.

I tried to dance with you for a song, when you grabbed my hand and pulled me with you, but I wasn’t sure how to move. Whenever I shifted, I ran into another person, felt them bounce off my back, off my side, away from me. I didn’t know how to dance, didn’t know which way to dip or turn, whether or not to move my hips. So I stopped. Even then, the couple in front of us managed to bump into and be launched out of my protruding stomach.

I dropped your hand and you stopped looking at the stage to look at me. I didn’t meet your eyes, instead going back to the meager swaying I’d been doing before, wondering, if I didn’t dance, I wouldn’t enjoy the concert as much as you.

The music shifted as he ripped into the next song, just as morose as the last, but this time, it was weighing me down. The crowd that was pulling me with them started pushing me in instead and I couldn’t move. I stood still as the concert went on. The air in my lungs was replaced by music. Even when I plugged my ears, I still felt the music. At least I could blame the stinging in my eyes on the blaring lights.

And they started playing my favorite song. The guitar line pulsated, growing louder and quieter behind each of my heartbeats. You tugged on my hand, excited. When you saw my face, your smile fell, and I was sorry. Sorry I came with you, sorry for thinking you would’ve had more fun without me.

You were watching me then, paying no mind to the stage you’d been so focused on. Did you know what I was thinking? The way you looked at me said you did. I wanted to leave, to get away from the music that made my skin buzz, from your eyes that told me you knew too much, but suddenly, my hand was being crushed in yours and your eyes stared deep into mine. You smiled, and it was a sad, understanding sort of look. I tried to tear my eyes from yours because I couldn’t stand to look at you. I pulled back, thinking about pushing through the crowd and out of the venue, about walking back to my flat alone, but you put a hand on the side of my face to keep my eyes on yours.

Your lips parted, and suddenly, you were singing at me, your voice louder than the band on stage. The chorus. You sang it with your whole heart. You couldn’t sing in tune, but it didn’t matter. You dug your thumb into the pillow of my cheek. Some girls are bigger than others. Some girls are bigger than others.

You stared at me and sang about fat girls. You sang it again, not caring for the tune, just the volume. Your eyes roved around my face, down to the fat on my neck, the rolls, and over every inch of my shiny, sweaty skin. There was a fire in your eyes that wasn’t there before, a heat that I hadn’t seen from you. Your eyes caught on my collarbones, the swell of my stomach, and then again on my lips before settling back on my eyes. You sang it one more time. Some girls are bigger than others.

You examined every single inch of me—my stomach uncovered by my arms, my fat thighs spilling from my tiny skirt—and still the heat didn’t leave. I was fat and you were not, but you knew I was fat and said it. I wanted to kiss you.

When you grabbed my hand this time, I went with you. With your eyes intertwined, we danced. We were swallowed into the sea of flying elbows. Our hips shook and our feet stepped in time to the beat. When we hit another person, they hit back. We forgot about the stage, more concerned with the view right in front of us.

I hoped you were tracking my eyes as they watch you dance. I hoped you could feel me staring at you with the same heat. I knew you could when you reached a hand around my back and let it rove. When you squeezed a palmful of fat. You treated my fat like your music, like you wanted to experience it as deeply as you could. You could feel me. I shared.