My name is Luna, I’m twenty years old, and when I step onto a stage, I’m the only person in the world that matters to me. Everything else fades away, forgettable, like shadows in a corner that will never reach me. The leather of my jacket, the distorted sound of my guitar, the cold microphone in my hand — all of it is my refuge, my scream against everything that ever hurt me.

I was never the popular girl. At school, I was the strange one with black hair, heavy makeup, and clothes that looked like they were ripped straight from a gothic movie. Because of that, I suffered bullying like it was an endless rite of passage. But music... music was my shield and my weapon.

Today, the sound of the chords from my band, Nocturne Veil, will cut through the walls of this crowded garage. It’s battle of the bands day, and even with butterflies in my stomach, I feel an adrenaline I can’t explain. Every note I play is a step away from that heavy past.

I arrive early, as I always do, and watch the other bands arriving. Some guys with fake smiles, girls who look like they walked right out of a pop magazine, and us... we’re the weird ones, the outcasts who came to show that darkness can be as beautiful as the light.

The place is kind of dark, full of posters stuck to the walls and smelling like sweat mixed with cheap beer. The makeshift stage is small, but to me, it’s a castle. The first band is already playing — a generic pop sound that makes me want to laugh, but I hold back.

I head backstage to fix my guitar, taking a deep breath. My bassist, Dante, a skinny guy with eyes that always look tired, throws me an encouraging smile. “You got this, Luna.”

“I hope so,” I answer, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

Then I see her. Clara. Her fiery red hair and easy smile. She’s in the rival band, but for some reason, she always catches my attention. Today, she’s talking to her lead singer, but when our eyes meet, I feel a strange chill that has nothing to do with the show.

I can’t let that distract me.

My band goes on stage right after the last song. My heart’s pounding, but my hands don’t shake. We start with a heavy song, full of riffs that seem to tear pieces from the soul. The crowd starts moving, some people begin jumping, others just watch curiously.

In the middle of the song, I feel her gaze again. Clara is watching, and for the first time, I see something beyond competition in her eyes. Something that makes the sound more intense, more urgent.

When we finish, the silence for a second is almost unbearable — until they applaud. It’s not the wild crowd I dreamed of, but it’s enough. I feel a little proud, despite the fear.

Later, during the break, she comes near our corner, looking at me like I’m a mystery. “You’re amazing on stage,” she says, her voice softer than I expected.

“Thank you,” I reply, trying to hide the heat rising to my face. “You too.”

She smiles, a smile that seems to carry secrets. “Maybe we can talk after the show.”

I want to say no, that I’m focused only on my band and the music, but something inside me wants to say yes.

The battle isn’t over yet. Other bands will play, and the audience’s decision will be the final verdict. But now, everything feels different. It’s not just about winning — it’s about something beginning to grow in this dark garage, between distorted chords and stolen glances.

The stage calls, and I know I’m ready to answer.

The garage vibrates with the sound of the next band, but my head is still stuck in that moment when Clara looked at me and said she wanted to talk. It's strange how a simple sentence can make so much noise inside me — louder than the amps screaming through the speakers.

I sit in a corner with my guitar on my lap, the strings still warm from the last notes I played. Dante is leaning against the wall, messing with his phone, but I notice him watching me out of the corner of his eye.

"You're different today," he says without looking up. "It's because of the redhead, huh?"

I roll my eyes, but I don’t deny it. I can’t.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Of course you don’t," he says, laughing. "I just saw you looking at her like she was a lyric you still haven’t figured out how to write."

I want to tell him to shut up, but I can’t help the small smile that escapes. Because deep down, maybe he’s right.

The other bands play, one after another. Some good, some even great. And amid all the noise, Clara’s band takes the stage.

She holds the microphone like it’s an extension of her soul. Her voice fills the space as if the garage ceiling had disappeared, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. It's not just her obvious beauty — it’s the way she gives herself to the song. She sings like someone who's had her heart broken and still manages to sing through the shards.

No one should be that beautiful — in every way.

And then, suddenly, she looks at me.

Directly.

As if the song were only for me.

As if the whole world had vanished, and it was just the two of us, caught between riffs and choruses and this strange abyss that’s starting to feel like a bridge.

When their set ends, the crowd cheers louder than I expected. They clap, whistle. For a moment, I feel a sharp fear in the pit of my stomach. They might win. And part of me wants that. But the other part… the other part just wants more of her voice saying my name.

Then the judges step onto the makeshift stage. One of them holds a crumpled paper and a crooked mic. The tension is so thick it’s almost chewable.

"Tonight’s battle was a close one," he says, and every other sound disappears. "But the winning band of the night is... Nocturne Veil!"

The world spins a little. Dante hugs me, our drummer shouts something I can’t make out, and the lights seem too bright. We won.

But my eyes search for only one person.

Clara’s there, in the middle of the crowd, clapping with a smile that's half proud, half sad.

My legs move before my mind can decide. I walk toward her like I’m following a guitar line — hesitant, intense, real.

"You were incredible," I say, and I mean it.

She looks at me with those eyes that seem to see through all my layers.

"You deserved to win. Your music… it speaks loud. Almost as loud as what you keep inside."

I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to people who see that deep, that quickly.

"Do you still want to talk?" I ask, my voice almost a whisper.

She smiles, and this time, it’s a calm smile, not teasing. An invitation.

"I do."

We leave the garage and walk to the back, where the night is cold and damp, but not enough to drive us apart. We sit on a wooden crate covered in old punk band stickers.

She crosses her arms, looking up at the cloudy sky.

"Why do you sing, Luna?"

The question catches me off guard.

"Because it’s the only time I feel like my voice matters. Like I really exist."

She nods, like she understands. Like she feels the same.

"I sing because I want someone to hear me," she says. "Really hear me. To see who I am, underneath what they expect me to be."

"Maybe that’s why we noticed each other."

She looks at me, and the silence between us is heavy with meanings words don’t know how to carry yet. Then, she leans in closer. Slowly, like she doesn’t want to scare me. Like she respects the weight of this moment.

Her lips touch mine for a second that feels like an entire song.

It’s not explosive. It’s gentle, like a minor chord at the end of a sad ballad.

When we pull apart, my eyes sting — and it’s not from makeup.

"That was… unexpected," I whisper.

"It was honest," she replies.

And I believe her.

The battle is over, but something bigger has begun.

And this time, it’s not about applause.

It’s about someone finally hearing the song I’ve always kept just for me.

The noise of our victory still echoes inside, but out here, everything is quieter. The kind of silence that doesn’t bother you — in fact, it feels necessary. Like the pause between two intense songs, when your heart needs a moment to realign itself.

Clara is still sitting next to me on that old crate, staring up at the cloudy sky like she’s waiting for an answer. Or maybe just trying to avoid the questions.

I should be celebrating with the band. I should be smiling, taking pictures, shouting “we won!” like it was the highlight of my life. But all of that feels distant now. Like the stage was just the first act of something bigger that started with a glance and ended — or maybe truly began — with a kiss too soft to leave my memory anytime soon.

“You always look so confident up there,” she says, still not looking at me. “But here… now… you seem like someone else.”

“Because I am,” I answer without hesitation. “The stage is my hiding place. Out here... I’m still learning how to be me.”

She finally looks at me, and there’s something in her eyes — a mix of tenderness and pain. Like she knows exactly what I mean.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she continues. “We sing like we’re exposing ourselves, but really, it’s where we’re most protected.”

“Exactly.” I smile slightly, surprised she’s put into words something I’ve never been able to explain. “Up there, no one can interrupt me. Out here… everything is uncertain.”

She sighs — the kind of sigh that comes from someone who carries too much but rarely says anything.

“My lead singer thinks I should flirt with the audience. Says it sells. But I don’t want to sing to please anyone. I want to sing to be heard.”

“You were,” I say softly, staring at my fingers. “At least… by me.”

The silence returns, this time more comfortable. Like our presence already says what words can’t.

After a while, we hear footsteps approaching. Dante, of course.

“Luna, everyone’s asking for you. They want a photo of the band with the trophy.” He pauses when he sees us there, close, exposed. “But I can say you’re… busy.”

“Thanks,” I reply, almost in a whisper.

He doesn’t joke, doesn’t smirk. He just nods and walks away, like he understands this victory has layers far beyond the stage.

Clara runs a hand through her hair, the red catching what little light the gray sky offers.

“I don’t know what this is, Luna,” she says. “But… I think I want to find out.”

My heart beats in that strange way — like it's hearing a new melody for the first time and trying to follow along.

“Me too,” I admit. “But slowly. One verse at a time.”

She laughs, the kind of laugh that breaks through defenses and builds something softer in their place. She stands and offers her hand.

“Come on. Let’s take that picture. I want to remember the night I lost to you… and won something better.”

I take her hand. It’s cold, but steady. And in that simple gesture, I feel a silent promise.

That the music will continue.

That some duets are worth more than any solo.