Music doesn't lie
864 Words
Kai’s POV
When she drops the flyer in front of me, I think she’s joking.
Open mic night? On stage? In front of people?
I haven’t even played in front of Jesse since everything happened.
But Lina just shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not asking me to tear open a part of myself I’ve spent months trying to sew shut.
“You’re serious?” I ask.
She nods, eyes steady. “Only if you are.”
And the part that kills me?
I am.
Not because I’m ready.
But because the idea of her walking onto that stage alone makes me want to be brave.
---
Later that day, Jesse and I hang out in my room. The soft hum of my record player spins in the background. No words at first—just the calm silence of someone who knows you too well to fill space with noise.
“She wants you guys to perform?” Jesse says eventually, glancing up from the sketchpad he always carries.
“Yeah.”
“And you said yes?”
“I didn’t say no.”
He smirks. “That’s basically a yes, coming from you.”
I don’t respond. I just stare at the ceiling and let the music fill the room.
“Dude,” he says after a while. “If she makes you want to play again, that’s not just music. That’s something else.”
I don’t answer. But I think about it for a long time after he leaves.
---
That night, I sit in front of the piano.
The keys look different now—like they’re waiting for me to finally come back.
I open the notebook. The one Nathan and I used to compose in.
I flip to the page Lina saw.
Grief taught me silence.
Music gave it a voice again.
My fingers tremble as I press the first chord.
It echoes softly, filling the empty spaces of the room—and something inside me cracks open.
---
The next few days, Lina and I meet in the music room after school.
It starts awkward. Quiet. We’re both figuring it out, like walking barefoot over memories we forgot were still sharp.
But the melody softens the edges.
Sometimes we sync up perfectly.
Sometimes we mess up and laugh so hard we lose track of the lyrics.
Sometimes we just sit there, not playing at all.
But every day, it gets easier.
And every day, she looks at me like I’m not broken. Like I’m still worth something.
---
Thursday, she hands me a new harmony line.
“Just an idea,” she says, eyes flicking away. “You don’t have to use it.”
I play it once. Then again. Then I add it to the bridge.
It works.
“Lina,” I say, “this is actually... amazing.”
She gives me a grin. “I am not just a pretty face.I am smart, remember that ."
And she winks.
---
The night before the performance, I can’t sleep.
I lie on my bed with the lights off, notebook in my lap.
I open the voice memos on my phone. One of them is from last year.
Nathan’s voice plays.
> “You seriously better not chicken out of open mic night. I already told Mom you’d do it. Plus, you owe me after I covered for you sneaking out that one time.”
He laughs in the clip. That carefree, teasing laugh I haven’t heard in months.
It hurts in the way only good memories do.
But it also reminds me: I wanted this once.
Before the loss.
Before the silence.
Before I forgot how it felt to want anything.
---
Friday.
Open mic night.
The school auditorium smells like folding chairs and nerves. There’s a makeshift stage, a mic, and warm yellow lights that don’t quite hide the butterflies in my stomach.
Lina finds me backstage. She’s in dark jeans, a navy top, hair falling past her shoulders.
She smiles. “You good?”
“Nope.”
She laughs. “Me neither.”
They call our names.
She grabs my hand.
We walk on stage together.
---
I sit at the piano. She stands by the mic. Her fingers are shaking slightly.
I look at her. She nods.
I start playing.
The notes come easier than I thought they would. Like they were waiting for this moment too.
She sings the first verse. Her voice is soft, raw, a little unsure—but honest.
Then I join in.
And just like that, we’re in it.
Not just performing.
Confessing.
Letting go of everything we’ve been too scared to say.
> “I never said goodbye out loud
But I still hear your name in the quiet.”
The last note fades.
Silence.
Then applause.
Not loud. Not overwhelming.
But real.
And for once, I let myself feel it.
Not fear. Not guilt.
Relief.
---
Backstage, we collapse onto a bench.
“That was…” she starts, breathless.
“Yeah,” I say.
We look at each other. Nothing else needs to be said.
Because the music said it for us.
And it didn’t lie.
- Writer
