How are you today my dear friends? I hope you are having a great time. Because today is Thursday, so I bring you another new story. In this case I have dedicated it to the E166 Ruby card. As in other occasions I have based it on the art of the card and the image that appears on it, so the story will be closely related to what you can see on the card or in the image below. With that said, let's begin, I hope you like it.

Ruby wasn't sure when she stopped enjoying what she did. It wasn't overnight, nor was there a clear reason. It just faded away little by little, like a light that flickers before going dark. She'd been singing for years, years filling theaters, smiling in interviews, saying everything was going well even when it wasn't. And at first, it didn't bother her, because singing was her safe place. It was the only thing she'd always been sure of. But at 35, already with a good number of albums, concerts, and awards under her belt, she began to notice a strange emptiness, as if everything she did had the volume turned down. She kept going to the studio, she kept rehearsing, but everything was harder. As if she had a backpack full of stones hanging from her shoulders. She would get up early, sit down at the piano, and stare at the keys without playing anything. Minutes passed, and all she managed to do was get frustrated.

Sometimes she thought she was exaggerating, that it was just a phase, that it happens to everyone. But there was also that internal noise, that murmur that kept reminding her that she wasn't performing as she used to, that something inside her had broken or was about to. And that really scared her. Because if she couldn't sing with the same strength anymore, if she couldn't get emotional anymore, then what was left? Her days became a kind of empty routine. She repeated the songs she already knew by heart, sang them as best she could, corrected small details she hadn't even noticed before. Everything was an effort, everything weighed on her. She started avoiding people, even those who loved her most. There were times when she simply didn't want to talk. She just wanted silence.

And then the big concert arrived. One of those that should have excited her. But no. She lived it as if she had to take an impossible exam. She practiced until she was exhausted, even though nothing seemed enough. She slept little, ate poorly, and every time she looked in the mirror, she felt like she was losing all her energy. On the day of the event, with her makeup on and everything ready, she didn't feel ready at all.

When she got on stage, she tried to take a deep breath, but it just wouldn't work. She began to sing as usual, but on the third song, suddenly, the lyrics disappeared. Just like that. As if someone had ripped a page out of her brain. She stood still for a couple of seconds that seemed like an eternity, staring into space. The audience was still there, waiting. And she felt like she was somewhere else. The band covered her well; no one noticed the mistake, but she did. It felt like a defeat.

After the show, she didn't speak to anyone. She went into the dressing room, closed the door, and sat down, exhausted. Everything she'd been carrying came crashing down on her at once. Fatigue, demands, fear, all mixed together. She didn't cry. She just stayed still, staring at the floor, not knowing what to think. That night, she didn't sleep. She scribbled random things in an old notebook she had lying around. They weren't songs. They were jumbled thoughts, phrases like "I can't do this anymore" or "Why do I keep doing this?" or "I don't recognize myself." It was there, between those poorly written lines, that she began to understand that what was happening to her wasn't because she was no longer good enough or because her talent had run out. What was happening was that she had pushed herself so hard for so long that she'd forgotten to breathe.

After that, things didn't change overnight, but something started to move. She allowed herself to say no to some things. She let herself be accompanied a little more. She started to go out without always having to be perfect. She went back to playing the piano without thinking about whether it was good or bad. And she realized she still had desire, she'd just buried it under tons of pressure.

A few months later, she got back on stage, calmer, without that need to do everything flawlessly. And it wasn't perfect, of course not. There were a couple of mistakes, a missed note, an off-time entrance. But she didn't care. Because for the first time in a long time, she was there, feeling every word she sang. And that was enough.

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