Monologue: The Night I Found Myself Under the Stars

It was supposed to be the happiest night of my life. The night I finally saw Coldplay — the one dream I’d held onto through every storm. And yet, as I stood there in DY Patil Stadium, surrounded by thousands of glowing lights, my heart felt heavy. Because she wasn’t there.

Sanju. She wasn’t just my best friend. She was my person. The one who could understand my silence, the one who made me feel like I mattered, even when I doubted my own worth. But lately, everything had felt wrong. I tried to tell her how I felt — how invisible I’d been feeling, how taken for granted I was. She didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that. But intention doesn’t make the pain go away. And when she didn’t hear me, when my words landed in that void, I broke. I tore up every letter I’d written for her. Letters full of love and trust, letters that had once been a part of me. Watching those pieces scatter felt like losing myself entirely.

Just days before the concert, my anxiety overwhelmed me. I collapsed, my body giving in to the pain my mind had been carrying for so long. I thought I wouldn’t make it. But this concert — this one night of Coldplay — kept pulling me forward. Their songs had always been my safe space. When I was alone, when the tears wouldn’t stop, when the world felt impossible, Chris Martin’s voice reminded me that I mattered. That my tears were worth something. That love, even when it hurts, is worth it.

When the lights dimmed and the first chords of “Higher Power” played, the crowd erupted. I screamed too, even though my voice trembled with everything I was holding back. The wristbands lit up in unison, creating a sea of colors that pulsed to the rhythm of the music. For a moment, it was like standing in a galaxy, surrounded by stars. And for the first time in weeks, I felt alive.

When “Paradise” started, I closed my eyes and let the music carry me. “When she was just a girl, she expected the world…” Those words felt like they were written for me. I had expected so much — from life, from love, from people. But life doesn’t always give you what you expect. As Chris’s voice soared, the song wasn’t about loss anymore. It was about hope. About finding paradise, even in the broken pieces.

And then it came. “Yellow.” The one song I had clung to more than any other. The opening notes sent the stadium into a frenzy, and as Chris sang, “Look at the stars, look how they shine for you…” I felt my heart break wide open. The lights turned golden, washing over the crowd, and I couldn’t stop the tears. I sang every word, my voice cracking, my chest heaving. I thought of Sanju. Of all the moments we had shared. Of the love I had poured into her, hoping she’d see me the way I saw her. And for the first time, I let myself feel it all — the love, the hurt, the longing.

The crowd wasn’t ready to let go of that moment. We screamed for more, begging for an encore, and Chris — always so gracious — smiled and said, “Alright, one more time.” And then it happened again. “Yellow,” a second time. It felt like the universe itself was telling me, “This moment is for you. Don’t let it go.” I laughed through my tears, singing louder, screaming the words into the sky. For the first time in so long, I felt like I wasn’t alone. Like the stars really were shining for me.

When “The Scientist” played, it was as if the song was reading my mind. “Nobody said it was easy…” Those words held all the grief I had been carrying. I thought of Sanju again. Of the laughter, the letters, the trust. Of the heartbreak. I wished I could go back, undo it all, but life doesn’t give you that chance. The outro, played in reverse, felt like a reminder that time only moves forward. And maybe that’s how it’s meant to be.

As the night continued, the lights around us danced. During “A Sky Full of Stars,” the wristbands blinked together, creating a universe in the stadium. Chris paused to show footage of Jasprit Bumrah, and the crowd roared with laughter. It was such a small, human moment — a reminder that even in all the grandeur, this night was about connection. When the song restarted, I looked up at the real sky above and felt a strange kind of peace. Like the stars themselves were singing with us.

And then there was “Fix You.” The song I had leaned on for so many nights. When the soft piano intro began, I felt a lump rise in my throat. “Lights will guide you home…” Chris sang, and the crowd joined in, thousands of voices blending into one. I thought of all the broken pieces inside me. I thought of Sanju, and how much of my heart I had given to her. And for the first time, I didn’t feel ashamed of my tears. I sang with everything I had, feeling the weight lift, little by little. Maybe I wasn’t as broken as I thought. Maybe there was still light in me, waiting to guide me home.

By the time the final song, “Feels Like I’m Falling in Love,” ended, I was exhausted. My body ached, but my heart felt lighter. The music, the lights, the crowd’s voices — it had all stitched together parts of me I thought were lost forever.

As I left the stadium that night, the glow of the wristbands fading into the distance, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. Coldplay didn’t just play songs that night. They gave me back a part of myself I thought I’d lost. And maybe, just maybe, the stars still shine for me. For Sanju. For all of us.