I keep singing.
You caught the weight behind the words, strummed with all this crafted time.
By the time I hit the chorus, my voice drops even lower. Not just because of the hour or the way her eyes are fixed on me, listening as though I’m giving away a secret.
But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
You heard the truth beyond the chords, the part that wasn’t meant for show.
When the last note fades, I let the silence curl around and between us. It’s not awkward. It’s reverential.
She exhales slowly, her shoulders lifting then falling as if she’s forgotten how to breathe for the last three minutes. Her eyes don’t leave mine, but something softens around the edges; the music must’ve reached her soul and stayed. There’s a glimmer there, awe or recognition.
The night holds the quiet between us, delicate as vintage fabric, ready to tear if either of us moves wrong.
“That was…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
I glance down, fingers tightening around the neck of the guitar.
Part of me wishes she’d say something—anything—that would make it easier to admit the truth I just sang. Say shehears what I’m trying to tell her, even if I can’t say it out loud.
“It’s nothing,” I say too fast.
“It’s not nothing,” she says steadily.
The words hang like a suspended chord, fragile and unresolved, but neither of us moves to fill the silence. Not yet.
She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask questions. But I see it in her face. She wants to. Not just about the song. There’s something else behind her eyes, something that might be bewilderment. As if she’s wondering what someone like me is doing hiding songs likethaton a back porch instead of playing them for audiences.
Her lips part as if she might speak again, but instead she just nods once, stands, and brushes nonexistent crumbs from her skirt.
“I should go. But…” She pauses, then hesitates. Her eyes glance briefly toward the guitar. “Have I…I wonder if I’ve heard that before?”
My breath catches, just for a second.
I keep my voice light. “Could be. You might’ve heard it on the radio. Or somewhere. I don’t know. I just like to play it.”
She nods quickly, and I sense that my explanation satisfies her for now. “Right. Well…thanks for the serenade, fake boyfriend.”
I watch her go.
Her walk isn’t hurried, but it’s measured, purposeful in a way that suggests she’s putting space between herself and something she hasn’t quite figured out how to hold.
Part of me wants to call her back. Just call her name and see if she stops. Turns around. Walks back.
But I don’t. I sit with the ache instead, the echo of thesong still stretched between us. She didn’t say much. Didn’t have to, and I didn’t expect her to. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more.
Not applause. Not praise. Just…something honest. Something that proves this wasn’t just music to her. That it mattered.
And maybe it did. Maybe that’s why she walked away before the moment asked for anything more.
I swallow hard as emotion tugs at my chest. Not the jagged-edged kind of hurt—just a tightening, enough to make me wonder if I’ll ever be able to play that song again without seeing her face. I realize I’m trembling.
Trying to shake it off, I start packing up.
That’s when I hear one crisp clap. Then another and one more, falling like punctuation marks.
I glance up.
