“You’re going to be incredible,” he says, his voice low and steady.
I lean back into him, letting his presence calm the storm inside me. “What if I forget the words?”
“To your own song?” He smiles, that crooked one that makes my chest tight. “The one you wrote in our kitchen at two in the morning while I made you grilled cheese?”
“That was three in the morning,” I correct, finding myself smiling despite the nerves.
“Right. Because two in the morning was when you threw your notebook at me for suggesting you rhyme ‘heart’ with ‘apart.’”
“It’s lazy writing.”
“It’s classic.”
“It’s cliché.”
He turns me around to face him fully, his hands steady on my face. “Nothing about what you wrote is cliché. It’s honest. It’s real. It’s you.”
The new song sits heavy in my chest, all those words I pulled from my journey with Darian, from learning to trust again after years of protecting myself. From the nights I lay awake wondering if I was brave enough to let someone in. From the moment I decided to stop running from the possibility of getting hurt. This song is about choosing love when every instinct tells you to hide.
“Nina’s out there,” I say, deflecting. “She brought three label executives.”
Nina Reyes found me six months ago, or rather, she found my voice. She’d been at The Songbird for a showcase, staying late to discuss terms with one of her clients, when she heard me singing along to the sound system while closing up. Most people would have left quietly. Nina waited by the bar until I noticed her, then simply said, “You’re wasting a gift.” She’s been persistent ever since, showing up weekly, bringing industry people to the venue “just to check out the atmosphere,” always reminding me that hiding isn’t the same as being safe.
“Good. Let them see what they’ve been missing,” Darian says.
“Lily’s here too.”
His expression softens. “I know. She’s sitting in the front row with that giant bouquet of roses she made me stop for.”
“You bought those?”
“She picked them. Said they had to be yellow because those are your happy flowers.”
My throat tightens. My ten-year-old daughter picked yellow roses because they’re my “happy flowers.” God, I love that kid.
“Five minutes, Rye!” someone calls from the hallway.
Darian kisses my forehead, gentle and sure. “You’re not the same person who’s been hiding behind that venue desk. You’re not running from anything anymore. You’re running toward something.”
“Toward what?”
“Yourself.”
He leaves me with that, and I turn back to the mirror. The woman staring back at me wears a simple black dress, nothing elaborate or flashy. My hair falls naturally around my shoulders, no extensions or complicated styling. This is me, stripped down to just voice and truth.
I think about last week’s performance at The Songbird, when Darian sang that new song with just fifty people watching, his family there supporting him, Lily and me at that corner table. That was intimate in its own way, but this is different. This is my debut. My emergence.
The stage is smaller than what I’m used to from watching performers at The Songbird, intimate in a way that makes hiding impossible. Maybe three hundred people fill the space, industry types mostly, the kind who can make or break a new artist with a single social media post. I spot Nina immediately, her silver hair catching the light as she leans forward in her seat.
She gives me a small nod, and I know she’s nervous too. She’s put her reputation on the line, convincing these executives to come see someone who’s never released an album, never toured, never done anything but run a small venue and occasionally write songs in notebooks she hides in her office.
The first few songs come easy, covers mostly, songs everyone knows but done my way. The audience responds well, polite applause and engaged faces, but it’s not until I sit at the piano that the room shifts.
“This next one,” I say into the microphone, my voice steadier than I expected, “I wrote recently. It’s about learning that love isn’t supposed to hurt. It’s about choosing to stay when every instinct tells you to run. It’s about finding someone who sees you at your worst and doesn’t flinch.”
I don’t look at Darian as I say this, but I feel him watching from the wings where he’s been standing since I walked onstage.
The first notes fill the space, simple and clean. When I start singing, the words pour out like water breaking through a dam.
