LOVE IN THE MOONLIGHT

Chapter 3: Coffee and Confessions

By the third night of meeting on the rooftop, I had started to convince myself that this was just a temporary thing, that we were two lost people using the moonlight as an excuse to forget about our real lives for a few hours before the sun came up and forced us to go back to being strangers who pretended we didn't know each other in the hallways, but the problem was that the more time I spent with Rayyan Hale, the harder it became to pretend that he was just some random guy with a guitar and a bad reputation because he was starting to feel like the only person who understood the way my brain worked when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

I showed up at 1:50 AM this time, 10 minutes early because I was nervous and because I had spent the entire day in the library trying to study for my retake exam but I couldn't focus on anything except the way he said my name last night like it meant something, and when I pushed the door open I saw that he was already there too, which meant he was early too, and that small detail made my heart do something stupid and hopeful that I really shouldn't have allowed.

He was sitting with his back to me, his guitar beside him, and he was looking at his phone, the blue light illuminating his face in a way that made him look tired, older, like he was carrying things that he never talked about, and when he heard me he didn't turn around right away, he just said, "You brought coffee again, didn't you?"

I laughed, even though I was holding two cups from the 24-hour convenience store because I couldn't afford the cafe one and I felt bad about it. "How did you know?"

"Because you feel guilty when you don't," he said, finally turning and giving me that half-smile that was starting to become my favorite thing in the world. "And because you think I need it."

He was right on both counts.

I handed him one cup and sat down, and for the first time we sat closer, not touching but close enough that our shoulders almost brushed when the wind blew, and the silence between us wasn't awkward anymore, it was comfortable, like we had been doing this for years instead of three days.

"How was your day?" he asked, and the question was so normal, so human, that it caught me off guard because no one had asked me that in a long time, not like they actually wanted to know the answer.

"Long," I said, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. "Studying for the retake. If I don't pass this one I lose my scholarship, and if I lose my scholarship I have to go home, and if I go home my mom will..." I stopped myself because I wasn't supposed to talk about that, I wasn't supposed to dump my problems on him.

But Rayyan just nodded, like he got it, like he didn't need the rest of the sentence to understand. "My day was long too," he said. "Played three gigs. Got paid in tips and one free pizza. Someone threw a beer bottle at me because I wouldn't play their request."

I turned to look at him, horrified. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, shrugging like it was nothing. "The guitar took most of it. She's more important than me anyway."

We both laughed at that, and then he picked up his guitar and started playing, but this time it was different, this time the song was lighter, almost hopeful, and I found myself closing my eyes and letting the music wash over me until the stress of the past week felt a little less heavy.

When he stopped, I said without thinking, "You should play professionally. Like, really professionally. You're too good to play for tips and free pizza."

He looked at me like I had said something ridiculous. "And do what? Tour? Record albums? That's not for people like me, Aira."

"Why not?" I asked, genuinely confused. "Why can't it be for people like you?"

"Because people like me don't get second chances," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made me realize that this wasn't just about music, this was about something deeper, something he didn't want to talk about.

So I didn't push. Instead I said, "Well, I think people like you deserve second chances. Third chances. However many chances you need."

He looked at me for a long time after that, and the moon was so bright it felt like it was watching us, like it was waiting to see what we would do next, and then he did something that surprised me, he reached into his guitar case and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Open it," he said.

I unfolded it carefully, and it was a flyer for a small music competition at the end of the month, the kind of thing where the winner got $5000 and a chance to record a single, and I looked up at him, confused. "Why are you giving me this?"

"Because I heard you humming yesterday," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "When you thought I wasn't listening. You have a good voice."

My face went hot. "I don't sing."

"You do," he said firmly. "Badly, but with feeling. And feeling is what matters."

I wanted to argue, but the way he was looking at me made me feel like maybe he saw something in me that I didn't see in myself, and that was both terrifying and comforting at the same time.

"I can't," I said, shaking my head. "I don't have time. I have to study."

"Then we'll make time," he said, and the 'we' in that sentence hit me harder than it should have. "Come to my gig on Friday. Just listen. See if you like it. If you hate it, you never have to come back."

I should have said no. I had so many reasons to say no.

But the moon was bright and the coffee was warm and for the first time in a long time someone was asking me to do something just for me, not for my grades or my scholarship or my future, and so I nodded.

"Okay," I whispered. "I'll come."

His smile was slow and real, and it did something dangerous to my heart. "Good. Pick you up at 7. Don't wear that hoodie. Wear something nice."

"I don't have anything nice," I admitted.

"Then wear the hoodie," he said, laughing. "But I'm stealing it back after."

We stayed on the rooftop until almost 4 AM, talking about stupid things and serious things and everything in between, and when I finally went back to my dorm I couldn't sleep because my brain kept replaying the way he said 'we' and the way he looked at me like I was worth something.

On Friday, I stood outside the small bar downtown wearing the only dress I owned, which was black and simple and probably too much for a campus gig, but I wore it anyway because Rayyan told me to, and when he saw me he stopped tuning his guitar and just stared for a second before saying, "Told you not to wear the hoodie."

I rolled my eyes but I was smiling. "You said nice."

"You look nice," he said, and then he went back to tuning his guitar like he hadn't just made my entire week with five words.

The bar was small and crowded and smelled like beer and music, and Rayyan played for two hours straight, songs that made people cry and laugh and dance all at the same time, and I sat in the back with a soda I couldn't afford watching him and thinking about how unfair it was that the world didn't know how talented he was yet.

After his set, he came over and sat next to me, sweaty and exhausted and grinning like a kid. "So?"

"So what?" I asked, even though I knew what he meant.

"So do you think I should do the competition?"

I looked at him, at the way his eyes were bright and hopeful in a way I hadn't seen before, and I realized that this mattered to him, that maybe this was his way out too, just like my scholarship was mine.

"I think," I said slowly, "that if you don't do it, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. And I think you deserve to see what happens when you stop pretending you don't care."

He was quiet for a long time, and then he reached over and, very carefully, like he wasn't sure if I would let him, he took my hand in his, his fingers warm and calloused from guitar strings.

"Thank you," he said. "For coming. For listening. For... this."

I didn't pull my hand away. "You're welcome."

We walked home together at 1 AM, not talking much, just walking, and when we got to the dorm he stopped at the entrance and looked at me.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked.

I nodded. "Same time tomorrow."

And as I walked away, I could feel him watching me, and I knew that whatever this was, it was no longer a one-time thing.

The moon had other plans for us.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]