Open Strings
877 Words
Kai’s POV
I hate stages.
Not because of the crowd—not really. It’s the vulnerability. The exposure. You’re standing under hot lights with nothing but your voice and your hands, trying not to fall apart while strangers watch.
Used to be I didn’t care.
Used to be I loved it.
Then Nathan was gone, and so was the part of me that knew how to be seen.
But here I am, standing outside Olive Street Café on a Friday night, hands in my pockets, heart in my throat, pretending this is no big deal.
Lina’s sitting on the curb with Jesse and Aria. She’s wearing that same worn denim jacket with music notes scribbled on the sleeves, and she keeps tapping her foot like she’s got a beat in her head she’s not ready to share yet.
When she sees me, her face lights up—not dramatically, just a subtle softening, like she didn’t expect me to come but hoped I would.
I nod. She smiles.
And just like that, something in me exhales.
---
The inside of Olive Street smells like old wood and espresso. The walls are covered with Polaroids of past performers—some laughing, some crying, all caught mid-chord.
I used to be on this wall.
I wonder if I still am.
Lina signs us up for a late slot, says she’ll play something soft. Jesse is doing a set too, of course—some kind of indie-funk fusion he’s been obsessed with lately.
I don’t sign up. I don’t even bring a guitar.
But I stay.
That’s something.
---
The acts blur together for a while—some good, some awkward, all brave. I sip on a black coffee I don’t even like and tap my fingers on the table, eyes flicking to Lina more than I’d admit.
When her name is called, she stands slowly. Nods once at us. Walks up to the stage with careful steps, like she’s still deciding whether to run.
Then she sits on the stool and starts to play.
The room changes.
Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s clear. She sings like she’s telling a secret to the room, and everyone leans in to hear it.
The melody is familiar—our melody. But she’s taken it somewhere new. The lyrics aren’t finished, but the emotion is. It’s all there—in the way her fingers tremble on the strings, the catch in her voice when she hits that second verse.
She sings about quiet people and loud memories. About the kind of grief that doesn’t shout, only whispers when it thinks no one’s listening.
And I’m listening.
Every word feels like it was meant for me.
Or maybe about me.
And when she finishes, the room claps like they’ve just heard something sacred.
I don’t clap.
I just stare.
Because I feel like I’ve been seen for the first time in a year.
---
When she comes back to our table, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, she sits down and looks at me like she’s waiting for something.
I don’t know how to say what I’m thinking.
So I don’t.
Instead, I lean in, close enough that only she can hear, and whisper, “You sang that like you meant every word.”
“I did,” she says, voice quiet.
I don’t ask who it was about.
I think we both know.
---
After the event ends, Jesse convinces Aria and Lina to walk with him to the convenience store down the block. I tell them I’ll catch up, then hang back.
The café is half-empty now. Just the barista wiping down counters, the hum of the espresso machine, and a couple lingering musicians talking in the corner.
I wander to the wall of Polaroids.
And there it is.
Me and Nathan, two years ago. Guitars slung over our backs, smiles so big they practically cracked the lens. We were holding up a sign that said "First Gig, Not Last."
I stare at it for a long time.
Not in sadness.
In stillness.
Lina’s voice echoes in my memory: Grief. Healing. Hope.
Maybe this is what healing looks like.
Not loud. Not fast.
Just... real.
---
Outside, the night air is sharp and clean. I walk toward the store, hands still in my pockets, but lighter somehow.
When I find them, Jesse is already arguing with the cashier about the best flavor of slushies. Aria’s laughing. Lina’s standing a little apart from them, looking up at the sky.
I stop beside her.
She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t move away either.
“Your voice,” I say. “You should let more people hear it.”
She glances at me, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You think?”
“I know.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I wasn’t sure you’d come tonight.”
“Neither was I.”
She smiles, and it’s soft and knowing, like she understands the weight behind those three words.
“Kai?” she asks.
“Yeah?”
“Next time... will you play with me?”
I don’t answer right away.
But my silence doesn’t feel like a wall anymore.
It feels like an open string.
Ready to be tuned.
- Writer
