Between the lines
711 Words
Lina’s POV
Something changed after Olive Street.
Not drastically—no grand declarations or epic music-movie moments. Just... small things. Shifts.
Kai sat closer to me in class today. Not right beside me, but not across the room like before. His notebook was already open when I arrived, a line scribbled across the top that made my breath catch:
> “Sometimes silence sings louder than sound.”
I wanted to ask if it was about the song. About that night.
But I didn’t.
Some things are better left floating between the lines.
By the time music class rolls around, I’ve got butterflies.
Not the nervous kind. The anticipation kind. Like I’m walking toward something that matters.
Kai’s already at our desk. When I sit, he slides a folded paper toward me. I raise a brow, unfolding it.
It’s a verse. One he wrote.
His handwriting is sharp, slanted. The lyrics are raw. Honest. About holding grief in your throat like it’s a second tongue. About forgetting how to speak without choking.
It stings—in the best way.
He watches my reaction closely. I don’t speak. I just write the next line beneath his.
We keep going like that. One line, one look. One thread at a time.
Until we’ve built a verse that’s almost a confession.
---
After class, he walks with me down the hall. Not speaking, but not in silence either. We’re just... walking. Together.
Outside, the clouds are thick and grey. It might rain. I love the way the sky looks just before a storm—like it’s holding its breath.
Kai stops near the bike racks. “Hey.”
I glance over. “Yeah?”
He hesitates. Then, “Thanks. For singing that night. For being brave.”
I smile, heart doing that weird little skip. “Thanks for showing up.”
He nods, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “Do you wanna... maybe work on the bridge together? After school? At my place?”
I blink. Not because I’m shocked he asked—but because I think this is the first time he’s initiated something.
“I’d love that,” I say.
And I mean it.
---
I text Aria that I’m going to Kai’s. Her response is a string of fire emojis and “GO SLOW, SINGER GIRL 🔥🎶”
I roll my eyes and tuck my phone away.
But I’m smiling.
---
Kai’s house is quieter than I expected. Minimalist. Music posters on the walls, mostly black-and-white. A piano in the corner that looks untouched.
I don’t ask about it. He doesn’t offer.
Instead, he leads me upstairs to his room. It’s tidy—surprisingly so. Guitars hang on the wall like art. There’s a notebook on the desk, pages dog-eared and full.
He hands me his guitar, then sits beside me on the edge of the bed with his own.
We start playing.
At first, it’s messy. We fumble through chord changes and lyrical phrasing. But slowly, it begins to click. The notes align. Our breathing syncs. We find the heartbeat of the song together.
It’s like we’re carving out a space where pain and beauty can exist at the same time.
---
At one point, I stop playing.
“Can I ask you something?” I say softly.
Kai doesn’t look up, but he nods.
“Was the song... was it about your brother?”
A long pause. Then: “Yeah.”
I let the silence stretch, gentle and open.
“Do you miss him?” I ask.
He finally meets my eyes. “Every day.”
My throat tightens. “I lost my grandfather last year. He used to sing to me when I was little. He was the reason I started writing music in the first place.”
Kai nods slowly. “Maybe that’s why your voice sounds like it remembers things.”
We sit there, two quiet people holding old grief in a new room.
Then he shifts, brushing a string on his guitar. “Let’s write something... not sad. Just for today.”
I smile. “Deal.”
And we do.
A bridge that’s not about loss, but about light. About remembering without drowning.
About choosing to keep playing.
Even when it hurts.
---
- Writer
