UNSPOKEN WORDS AND FORGOTTEN LYRICS
834 Words
The day started like any other. But nothing about Amani felt ordinary.
She stood by the tall window of her apartment, a robe tied loosely around her waist, the morning sun casting golden lines across her skin. The world outside moved fast—cars honking, delivery bikes weaving through traffic—but inside, she was still. Too still.
Her coffee had gone cold.
Her mind, however, was aflame—with memories she had long buried under silence and fresh starts.
________________________________________
Flashback – New York, 18 Months Ago
The soundstage at Harpo Studios was always loud. But not chaotic. Not on Amani’s watch.
She moved like a conductor—her fingers barely lifted, yet entire departments adjusted. Hair, wardrobe, lighting, sound—everyone synced to her internal rhythm.
She wore tailored navy slacks and a white silk blouse that never wrinkled, no matter how long the day. Amani was precision, elegance, fire, and steel—wrapped in grace.
Oprah had trusted her with everything. Timing. Messaging. Guest selection. Crisis control.
She was the architect of harmony.
Until the betrayal.
She walked into a producers' meeting uninvited—something felt off. And there she saw it.
Maya. Her mentee. Her supposed shadow.
Presenting Amani’s entire strategy document like it was her own. Word for word. Slide for slide.
Not one producer called it out. No eyes darted in discomfort. They nodded in agreement. They praised her.
“Smart to bring this to the table, Maya.”
Amani didn’t flinch. Not in that moment.
She simply smiled. Picked up her phone. And walked out.
Her resignation letter hit the inboxes within the hour.
________________________________________
Present Day – Seoul
Minjae leaned against the wall of the studio hallway, towel around his neck, hair still damp from rehearsal. He scrolled aimlessly through his phone, trying to tune out the buzz in his head.
Ever since the bus incident, something about Amani lingered in his thoughts.
She was composed to the point of mystery. But real. Too real.
And now, his curiosity was a dangerous itch.
He typed her name into the search bar.
Not expecting much. Maybe a LinkedIn. Maybe an old article.
Instead, he found a video—blurry, taken from behind a curtain.
The caption read: "Backstage Queen – Watch Her Work."
He pressed play.
And his jaw slackened.
There she was, his assistant—snapping into action as dozens of people moved when she moved. Her voice came through clear, calm, commanding.
“No, not lavender. Oprah hates lavender under heat. Switch the bouquet. Four minutes to set.”
Minjae watched, transfixed. She didn’t yell. She didn’t stress. She didn’t sweat.
She ruled.
He rewound. Watched again. Again.
“Who the hell are you?” he murmured.
________________________________________
The Fan Event
The mall atrium was a sea of lightsticks, homemade banners, and chanting fans. The energy was loud, wild, intoxicating. And Minjae hated every second.
His manager had bailed last-minute. Amani had to step in as stand-in. Again.
“You sure you can handle this?” he muttered, eyeing her with that usual condescension.
She smiled mildly. “Can you?”
He rolled his eyes.
As they approached the stage, the host handed him a mic. “You’ll perform an unplugged set—something personal for the fans. Keep it light.”
Minjae nodded absently. He hated acoustic sets. Too raw. Too exposed.
Amani stood at the side of the stage, arms crossed, scanning the crowd like she was protecting royalty. But her eyes kept flicking back to him.
As if sensing something he didn’t even know he felt.
The lights dimmed.
He sat, guitar in hand. The crowd hushed.
He strummed once.
Twice.
Then—nothing.
The lyrics were gone.
His mind turned white. Panic clutched his throat.
The silence stretched awkwardly.
Whispers began. Phones lifted. Recording. Waiting.
Amani’s gaze sharpened.
And then, without moving from her spot, she spoke. Quiet, but just enough.
“‘If I could freeze this moment... I’d never let it melt.’”
His eyes snapped to her.
The words struck like lightning. His fingers remembered. The chords returned. The verse flowed.
He sang.
The crowd erupted.
Later, backstage, he found her standing by the snack table, pretending to read the event schedule.
“How did you know the cue?” he asked, his voice a little softer, a little more shaken.
She didn’t look up right away.
Then: “I listen. Even when you’re not speaking.”
He stared at her, chest tight.
For a long second, silence hung between them.
He saw her then—not just as the assistant he was forced to accept—but as a force. A presence. A woman who saved him… twice now.
Someone who saw him when he wasn’t even trying to be seen.
And he didn't know whether to thank her or run.
His fingers brushed against hers as he took the water bottle from her hand.
And it lingered.
Too long.
They both noticed.
But neither pulled away.
- Writer
