REMI
The video call with Maddie was, without a doubt, one of the most excruciating moments of my life. I keep replaying it in my head, unable to shake the image of her face, shocked, devastated. The guilt won’t let go. It just sits there, pressing down like a weight I can’t lift.
How I’ve managed to focus on work this week is beyond me. To avoid completely falling apart, I’ve kept my distance from Sebastian. I don’t even know if Maddie told him about the breakup. Either way, I’ve made sure our conversations have stayed short, polite, and surface-level. No space for questions I can’t answer.
Sebastian’s always been respectful, but if he ever asked why I ended things with the woman I thought I’d spend my life with, what would I even say? That she was amazing, kind, and brilliant… but not the one I wanted? That somewhere along the way, without meaning to, my heart chose someone else?
And that someone is him.
I run a hand through my perpetually messy hair and pace the room, too wired to sit still. The truth is, I can’t tell him. I can’t tell Sebastian that I ended things with Maddie because I’ve fallen for him, for his impossible beauty, his quiet kindness, theway he turns my world upside down without even trying. He’s dismantled the structure of my life like it was nothing.
And I know I can’t act on it. I know I need to stay just his friend. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep this in without slipping. Without something in me giving way.
I’ve thought about talking to someone, Francis, maybe. But I’m not ready. Not yet. First, I need to figure it out on my own. When the others ask about Maddie, I’ll keep it vague. Say it just didn’t work out. Because the truth, what I feel for Sebastian, has to stay buried. If anyone ever found out, especially him, it would ruin everything.
And I couldn’t stand to lose him.
But tonight, there’s no avoiding him. It’s his concert, and of course I’ll be there. The others are all buzzing, Francis, Anne, Jamie, Noah. And me? I’m trying not to show how much I’ve been counting down the days.
Sebastian’s music isn’t just something he does. It’s who he is. Raw, intricate, utterly his. Seeing him perform live feels like being granted a glimpse into a part of him he doesn’t usually show.
And for reasons I’m still trying to untangle, that matters to me more than I’m ready to admit.
I’ve watched the YouTube clips. I know how good he is. But tonight isn’t about technique or reputation. Tonight, it’s personal.
I shower and dress with more care than usual. I’ve never been especially into fashion, but this feels like it deserves the effort. The navy suit fits well, with clean lines, understated. A crisp white shirt for contrast. My hair, true to form, refuses to cooperate, but I manage something halfway decent. A couple of sprays of cologne and I’m out the door, hoping the walk will ease the tension buzzing just under my skin.
On the way, I stop at Subs for a sandwich and a bottle of sparkling water, eating as I go. Somewhere between bites, I find myself wondering whether Sebastian’s eaten anything today. He was already gone when I woke up, and I didn’t get the chance to make breakfast for him.
I shake my head, half amused, half exasperated. When did I start thinking about him like this?
My phone buzzes. It’s Francis, letting me know they’re already at Wigmore Hall, saving seats. I pick up my pace, heart kicking up a little, though I’m not sure if it’s from the rush or what I’m walking into.
Wigmore Street glows in the warm gold of early evening, elegant and quietly alive. Outside the concert hall, a small crowd has gathered, voices hushed in anticipation. I spot our group almost immediately, everyone’s made an effort tonight. Even the guys are in suits. Anne looks incredible in a black velvet gown, her hair swept up, glittering earrings brushing her neck with every movement.
We greet each other with hugs and laughter before heading inside for the reception.
Sebastian left tickets for all of us. Ian couldn’t come, something about work, apparently. I’m not exactly heartbroken. To be honest, I’ve had more than enough of him circling Seb like a moth to a flame.
An usher escorts us to our seats, a private box with a flawless view of the stage. The hall is breathtaking: rich mahogany panelling, deep red velvet, and a hush that feels almost sacred. Like stepping out of time.
Anne leans in with a mischievous smile. “Seb and his agent clearly have impeccable taste.”
“May Morrison, right?” I say, the name surfacing from some half-formed memory.
“That’s the one. She never misses a show. If we see her later, I’ll point her out.”
We take our seats. On stage, a grand piano waits beneath the lights, its lacquered surface catching every glimmer like rippling water. It’s massive, almost imposing. I try to picture Sebastian, slight, delicate Sebastian, commanding something so vast. Yet I know he can.
Two women step into the spotlight.
One, older, begins listing Sebastian’s accomplishments. International competitions. Prestigious venues. A string of awards. I sit there, stunned. I knew he was talented, of course, but this? This is something else entirely.
How much has he given up to get here?
And still, he’s never bragged. Never once flaunted any of it. He’s always just... shown up. Present. Thoughtful. Constant. And me, what have I offered in return? A handful of hesitant compliments and far too many awkward glances?
The second woman begins introducing the programme, and Jamie perks up beside me. “Debussy, Chopin, Dvorák, classic. Piazzolla? Unexpected. But Scriabin? Whoa.”
