From the original dance track to a reimagined love ballad, the arrangement had undergone a complete transformation. The emotions and atmosphere shifted entirely as well.
Ronan loved Robyn's original version—classics are classics for a reason—but that didn't mean his take was any less good. Setting aside the playful, over-the-top tenderness he'd added to tease Maxim, the slower, gentler ballad suited his vocal tone perfectly. It also allowed for a deeper, more heartfelt expression of emotion.
So it wasn't surprising that someone might be moved by Ronan's version.
"Ronan…" Just as he was about to step away, the taller girl called out again, stopping him in his tracks. "Could you sing the girl version?"
In the lyrics, there's a line: "I gave it my all, but I'm still not the girl you take home." When Ronan had performed on the streets of Salt Lake City, he'd changed "girl" to "boy" as a nod to Maxim. Now, the girl was asking him to switch it back to the original?
His gaze landed on the chubby-cheeked girl. She lowered her head shyly, her face hidden in the shadows, making it impossible to read her expression. Meanwhile, the taller girl shifted slightly, half-shielding her friend like a windbreak, protecting the girl behind her.
In a flash, Ronan understood. Maybe the story of "Dancing on My Own" had struck a chord with the chubby-cheeked girl. Unlike Robyn, she didn't have the courage to dance alone until dawn. Perhaps she hoped Ronan's voice could give her the strength to smile again.
That's the magic of music.
In those notes, we always find a place where our emotions resonate—joy, anger, sorrow, love, loss, everything.
Though he didn't know what the chubby-cheeked girl had been through, Ronan's heart softened. He nodded and agreed simply, "Sure."
Guitar in hand, he stepped aside a little, making room for the band to pack up the drum kit, speakers, and other gear. They didn't want to hold up the TV crew prepping for the live broadcast. Then, standing on the edge of the street, he got ready to perform—
Street performances are like that. No lights, no spotlight, no lines, no boundaries. You just find a random corner, and with your voice, you start singing.
At first, it wasn't just Ronan—every band member felt painfully awkward. They couldn't get used to the indifferent stares of passersby. It was like shouting into a crowd and getting no response, completely ignored, utterly abandoned. That uncontrollable loneliness was overwhelming.
Back then, the band messed up constantly. It took everything they had just to focus.
But now, they'd fully adapted to street gigs.
Ronan took his spot. Before he even started, a tourist walked by and tossed a coin in front of him, like he was some beggar or drifter. Ronan didn't get mad. Instead, he mimed tipping a nonexistent hat, channeling a bit of Chaplin in his gesture as a playful response.
The silly move actually drew some friendly chuckles from the people passing by.
Then Ronan looked down at the strings in his hands. The moment his fingertips brushed them, his mind settled, sinking fully into the melody. The symphony swirling around him played again in his head, as if the whole city were singing along.
His fingers gently strummed, and the clear, crisp notes danced at his fingertips. The soft, flowing sounds wrapped lightly around his beating heart. Then, in a low voice, he began to sing. His clean tone told the story quietly, carrying a fragile vulnerability that carefully laid bare the tenderness within.
"Somebody said you've got a new love. Does she love you more than I do? My world's covered in haze. I know where you are—I bet she's right there too."
A faint bitterness, a quiet sadness, a subtle loneliness. Despite the smile on his lips, an unshakable solitude tugged at his ankles, pulling him down. The icy wind wrapped around them, and the simple lyrics, carried by his captivating voice, wove a moving tale of emotion.
"High heels and broken bottles scattered on the floor, I spin and leap lightly across the dance floor…" The graceful flourish in his voice traced an effortless arc, blending perfectly with the bustling crowd—
A surging throng and a lonely singer. A noisy street and a solitary soul.
Reality isn't a movie. People didn't stop in their tracks because of Ronan's singing. His voice wasn't quite the heavenly sound you'd read about in novels. Passersby might glance over briefly, but then they'd keep walking.
Yet the more the crowd rushed by, the lonelier it felt. The louder the noise, the deeper the sadness. A single beam of light fell on Ronan's shoulders, casting a long shadow. He sang on, unshaken by the crowd's indifference.
"I stand on the corner watching you kiss her, oh, oh-oh… I'm right there, why can't you see me? I gave it my all, but I'm still not the girl you take home… I can only dance on my own…"
In the light, his downcast eyes shimmered with emotion. His gentle voice quietly shared his solitude, landing so softly—almost too softly—on the heart. The bitterness filled her chest, and her heart trembled. The chubby-cheeked girl couldn't hold back anymore. She buried her face and sobbed silently.
Tears broke free.
Every word struck the wounds buried deep in her heart. Her humility, her smallness, her loneliness—all of it laid bare in the song, nowhere to hide. Ronan's voice seemed to pull those memories back to life in her mind. She stood there like a fool on the corner, watching them kiss. Her mind screamed "leave," but her feet wouldn't budge. The whole world went quiet.
Looking up, she saw the gentle curve of Ronan's smile, but in its upward tilt, she caught a trace of sadness. That was the real killer.
Silently, the guitar and Ronan's voice floated over the bustling Las Vegas Strip. No one stopped to listen. Noise clashed with stillness, chaos with calm. In that stark contrast, an irrepressible loneliness seeped into the vibrant night of the gambling city.
Unknowingly, an illusion took hold. The small space around Ronan seemed to hit slow motion, while the world beyond sped up. The contrast between fast and slow split the scene in two.
Note 1: "Dancing on My Own" (Calum Scott)
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