Dear Sam,

Frustrated, flustered, irritated, and overwhelmed, are just a handful of emotions that I felt as I waited impatiently for the shuttle to carry me to the metro station, which was only the first leg of the trip. After standing for what felt like a century, I decided to trek the jumbo city blocks from my apartment in the freezing rain, alone, all for him. Once I made it to the train, I took out my kindle to read a few chapters from the romance novel that I’d been reading. (I often suck myself into these clichés of world wind fantasies. So it was only right that I allowed myself to be that mysterious girl on the train, wrapped in a scarf, whose eyes pull away from her reading just long enough to connect with a stranger outside as the doors close.) I digress. The ride was so long, delays like I’d never experienced my entire time in DC. I couldn’t help but feel like forces from both ends of Earth were pulling against me, but my excitement aided with keeping me grounded. After swapping trains and riding all the way to the end of the line, I spotted two girls around my age, standing at the crossroads of the exit. It must actually be true that vibes don’t lie, because I could just feel that they were on their way to see Sam too. I approached the one who wasn’t on the phone saying, “This is probably a weird question, but are ya’ll going to see Sam Smith by chance?” She replied, “OMG yes we are! Are you too?” I ended up suggesting that we take a car together, and to my surprise, they already had one on the way and invited me to join. Colleen, Lindsey, and I all only ended up paying about $6.00 a piece, an extreme price cut from the $61.00 that I had been previously quoted. As I express how unlikely it is that I would be at that exact place, getting off that train, at that very moment, I can’t possibly deny that we’re like puppets, and the Universe pulls at all the right strings. After a canceled shuttle, a 1 mile walk, 2 trains, and 1 Uber, I "Made it to Him". Speaking of strings, Sam Smith tugged at my heartstrings as he shared with us the bittersweet undertone of his album. I’d made it to my seat all alone, and there was no place I’d rather be, and no better company than that of my own. It was as if I’d sat down on the infamous couch ready to receive my therapy session. His story of unrequited was so relatable that I felt like he was “singing my life with his words”. He blared into the mic that his album is often mistaken as sad, when in reality it was his saving grace. His heartbreak positioned him perfectly to be able to write on a level that he’d struggled to reach for so long. Something that he said inspired a thought in me. He’d gotten over love by falling in love again, not with another person, but with his craft. His soul was so beautiful to me; I could see it in his being, even when he stood in moments of silence on the stage. Sam sung to my past, present, and future, and as silly as it may sound, I let him in, in a way that I never allow most human beings. Dear Sam, for those 2 hours, we were soul-mates. That kind of energy is rare. I would have felt the same breathlessness even with my eyes completely shut.