This will be fun. Easy. A much-needed break in the tension.
We’re geared up to sing next, and as I move onto the stage with a chest full of lead, something stops me. Chase ambles up on my right, hands in his pockets, a look of dread in his eyes.
“Wait.” I turn to Chase as he grabs one of the two microphones. “Do you want to sing ‘Hallelujah’?”
The suggestion slips out unbidden. Twists my stomach into a cherry stem.
I should have stuck with the oldie—upbeat, free of deeper weights. His tattoo flickers across my mind, an ode to his late sister.
This is too much.
But Chase swallows. Falters. Then nods once.
Mind spinning, I traipse over to the DJ and ask him to change the song. It takes a minute before the haunting opening chords of “Hallelujah” reach the air. As I return to the stage and move in beside Chase, my arm brushes his as I take the second mic. For a moment, all I hear is the rush of my heartbeat, a thundercloud of nerves and doubt.
I can do this.
This is what I’ve been working toward. A pinnacle of all my midnights.
I open my mouth and sing the first verse solo, grasping for that secret chord. A hush washes over the room, the voices dying out, the echo of glassware fading into raw poetry.
Surely nobody expected this song, a melancholy hymn thrown into a divey pub filled with pop songs and overplayed classics. But I think this is what people search for. A voice that moves when they least expect it. A song that connects. Stands out.
Maybe that’s the secret chord.
I don’t look at Alex, but I know he’s watching. Studying our dynamic like he’s waiting for the right moment to pull the strings tighter, just enough to remind me of where I belong. But I already know where I belong.
Alex is my home, even when it hurts.
And yet, standing on this stage next to Chase, I’ve never felt more grounded. More indelible. More like myself.
Chase enters at the chorus, his voice intertwining with mine, the harmonyboth fragile and euphoric. Our voices rise with the words, with the lyrical poetry, pure and profound. A threaded tale of faith and purpose and tragic love.
He takes the second verse, and I grip the mic harder, my palms slick. I stare straight ahead, faces blurred and color muted. My eyes close. I drink in the sound of his voice like sustenance. This feels too natural, too kismet. His voice doesn’t waver, steady in its sorrow.
Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a song anymore. It’s a story.
His grief. My burdens. Losses that linger like smoke-steeped air, each note a confession.
My throat burns, the tears gathering before I even realize they’ve ambushed me. I blink rapidly, try to eviscerate them, but they bloom and swell, stinging the backs of my eyes.
I sing with him. Dips and crescendos. Brokenness and hope.
I can’t tell if it’s an exorcism or a possession.
Maybe both.
And it hits me like a rogue wave, how deeply I’ve been avoiding my own feelings. Shunned them like trespassers. My purpose, my dreams, everything that makes me…me.
It all breaks free.
The sobs I’ve been holding back for so long burst like a brittle dam cracking. Hot tears pour out, one after another, and I can’t stop them.
Embarrassment and despair bleed together.
Clarity too.
I’m drowning. Lost at sea.
