i’m with the band
I walked into The Far Out Lounge alone — dim lights, thrifted couches, a haze of smoke clinging to the ceiling, and Freaks by Surf Curse humming faintly from the patio stage. The place smelled like cheap beer and last chances. I followed the music like it was pulling me by the collar — and there he was. Mr. Lead Guitarist. The moment I saw him, the rest of the room blurred. It always starts like this. I don’t hunt for musicians — but somehow, they always find me. And I’m not alone. There are plenty of women who’ve fallen for a guy with calloused fingers and commitment issues. I’ve heard the fairytales, lived the slow burns, and survived the crashes. This isn’t a warning. It’s just the truth — the kind you only learn from experience.
A boy in a band has the pull of gravity. It’s in his quiet confidence, the chaos he calls charm, and the way he talks about music like it’s a religion. He reads you lyrics he’s written, and you’re genuinely surprised by how poetic he is — especially that line about brown eyes that must be about you. You’re “on the list” at every show, never paying a cover, slipping into the green room like it’s your second home.
On stage, he’s electric. You lock eyes from the crowd, clap too loudly during his solo, and can’t wait to see what else those hands can do later. It’s magnetic. It’s magical.
It’s blind.
But the days stretch long, and reality starts to hum a different tune. Your texts go unread. You’re sitting alone at dinner — again — while he’s stuck in a never-ending rehearsal, and you’re wondering what the hell you’re even doing there. Second choice to the soundcheck. Always.
I’ve sat in restaurants with a full table and an empty seat across from me. Once, it was 45 minutes past our reservation, and I hadn’t heard a word. That night, I started asking myself the kind of questions you don't want to ask.
Was I anything more than a muse?
Did the soft, symbolic lyrics actually mean I was loved — or just that I looked good in a metaphor?
And yet, every time there was a show, a missing stagehand, or some painfully cringy lyrics to review, I showed up. I always did. You learn to perform, too — not with a mic or a guitar, but with polite applause, well-timed laughter, and a “babe, that line about the burning sky? Chills.”
Even when the music was bad — like really bad — I clapped like it was genius. Love can make you a liar — or at least a really convincing fan.
But when is close too close? When are you “with the band,” and when are you just a groupie with a backstage pass and fading boundaries?
Hanging out with the band can be fun — chaotic, loud, full of inside jokes — but that sense of impostor syndrome never really leaves. Do you believe in this? In him? And more importantly… do they believe in you?
I’ve dealt with my fair share of jealous bandmates, trust me. The kind who smile through their teeth, never ask a single question about you, and drop little reminders that your boyfriend’s real priority should be the band. They want him locked into rehearsals, late-night writing sessions, post-show bar crawls — not romantic dinners or weekends away.
It’s subtle, but the message is clear: you’re welcome, but only if you don’t get in the way.
And that’s when I realized: dating a musician means living in the blur between passion and frustration. You quickly learn that love isn’t always about being seen or heard — sometimes, it’s about showing up even when you’re the second priority.
But I’ve also learned the importance of keeping my own rhythm. Supporting someone else’s dream doesn’t mean losing sight of your own. Being part of their world is a gift — but only if it doesn’t cost you your sense of self.
The bright lights and loud crowds can feel intoxicating, but the quiet moments alone teach you what really matters. Loyalty is powerful, but loyalty to yourself is stronger.
Some girls get fairytales, some get heartbreaks, and most get a little of both tangled up like the chords of a complicated song.
At the end of the day, do what makes you happy — stay if it feeds your soul, walk away if it starts to drain it. Just don’t forget who you are in the process.
Because his first-place seat is already taken by the guitar. Make sure you never give away yours.
