“You don’t know what I was trying to say.”
“No. But I know what the music was trying to say. Sometimes that’s enough.”
The distinction cuts deeper than I want to admit. He’s right—there’s a difference between stealing someone’s story and finding the story that already exists in their music. Between taking something that belongs to someone else and excavating something that belongs to the song itself.
“Show me.”
He moves toward the guitar, lifting the Martin from its stand. “Are you sure?”
“Show me what you heard.”
He settles into the chair and finds my melody on the guitar strings. But this time, instead of just playing my creation, he weaves in the harmony line from that night. The song begins to breathe, to expand beyond what I originally created.
Then he starts singing.
Found myself in a city of second chances
Where the music cuts deeper than the pain
His voice transforms the words from text on paper into something alive. The melody I abandoned becomes the foundation for something complete, purposeful. Like it was always meant to exist this way.
She left her song unfinished in a room that holds too many secrets
But some melodies refuse to die
They wait for hands that understand their weight
For voices brave enough to try
The chorus builds exactly where it should, the harmony supporting rather than overwhelming the original melody. My throat tightens because this is what I reached for that night without knowing how to grasp it. This is the song I couldn’t write because I was too afraid of what it might reveal about me.
He finishes and looks up, guitar still balanced on his knee. “That’s what I heard.”
Silence stretches between us. I should be angry. I should demand he delete the recording and burn the notebook pages. Instead, something loosens in my chest, like a knot I’ve carried for years finally giving way.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It was already beautiful. I just gave it words.”
“My words. The ones I couldn’t write.”
“Your melody. Your emotional blueprint. I just followed the map you drew.”
I stand abruptly, needing movement to process what just happened. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No. It doesn’t.” He sets the guitar aside and stands too, close enough that I can feel heat radiating from his body. “I should have asked permission.”
“Yes.”
“I should have made sure you were okay with me building on something you created.”
“Yes.”
“And I definitely shouldn’t have assumed that finding something unfinished meant I was invited to complete it.”
“Definitely not.”
We’re standing too close now, close enough that I can see stubble along his jawline and smell coffee on his breath. Close enough to notice the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth before returning to meet my gaze.
