He picked up the guitar and strummed a melancholy chord. The audience fell into a hush. The acoustics really were magnificent in the modest little coffee shop. The note reverberated against the walls. He looked up with earnest eyes and they filled with tears. Returning his grave gaze to the guitar, you could tell he had been through much with it. The pick guard looked worn and well loved. Perhaps this was the closest thing he had ever had to a friend. Looking at it again with adoration, he strummed another chord and you could feel the tenderness. The effortless way his fingertips caressed the strings was like a parents’ to a child. I gazed into my steaming mug of coffee and awaited the performance. Another emotional kid from some high school, I thought. Hormonal and misunderstood, turning to music as a way out. He had no idea. I realize how pretentious I was at that moment now. Then, something celestial grasped me, and intertwined mine and the boys’ minds. I looked up and he did too, and the look on his face all but said “I’m going to prove you all wrong.” He returned his gaze to the strings of the instrument, and proceeded to play the most striking piece I had ever heard. It was unique and rich and melodious and exotic. It swirled and looped and it was beautiful. He closed his eyes, and it didn’t even matter. He didn’t need to see to feel everyone's emotions welling inside. As he ended with the final plunking notes, it was again hushed. We were awestruck. There was nothing to say. His unspoken point had been established. You could tell in the way he promptly left the shop, with not a single glance backward.