The watchful silence

I stared at the blank screen, feeling the familiar mix of anticipation and dread settle in my stomach. The soft whir of my computer filled the silence, a low hum that seemed to echo in the quiet room. For a moment, I just sat there, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, hesitating. The reflection of my face in the dark monitor was unguarded, vulnerable—a version of me no one else ever saw.

A deep breath. Then another.

I pushed away the thoughts that threatened to surface and clicked the mouse, bringing the screen to life. The bright colors of my streaming software flashed before me, a stark contrast to the shadows that had been creeping into my mind all day. Notifications from fans scrolled across the screen—messages of excitement, anticipation, and love. They were waiting for me, expecting me to be the person they saw every evening. The one who made them smile, who played music for them, who shared snippets of her "perfect" life.

I adjusted the ring light, tilting it just so until my face was bathed in its soft, flattering glow. I knew exactly how to position it to hide the dark circles under my eyes, to make my smile seem a little brighter, my eyes a little more alive. I reached for my guitar, the familiar weight of it grounding me for a moment. The strings were cool under my fingers as I strummed a few chords, the notes filling the room with a sound that was comforting, even if only for a moment.

    Music has always been a part of my life. From an early age, I learned to play various musical instruments. To be honest, I was never interested in music. Writing songs and performing them on stage was my mother's dream, but it never came true. Maybe that's why I learned everything at her whim. And no... I'm not mad at my mom because of this. On the contrary, at least music remained something she was proud of. Mom was proud of my achievements. And I... I wanted to sing for myself. It's a shame that my mother never understood this. Surely, if she saw me now, she would laugh and... What else would she do if she were here?

The timer made itself known. It was time to take the “stage.” I sighed and put all thoughts of the past aside. There's no time for that now. I set the phone down and leaned in, clicking the "Go Live" button. The countdown began, and I smiled, holding the guitar closer to my chest.

3... 2... 1...

"Hey, everyone!" I greeted with the practiced enthusiasm that had become second nature to me. The chat exploded with greetings, hearts, and words of love. "Wow, so many people tonight. I am happy to see all of you."The comments blurred together, a constant stream of positivity and support. It was like a drug, their energy feeding me, keeping me afloat even as I felt myself drifting. "You're always so positive!" someone typed. "How do you do it?"

"So, let’s start as usual. I have new songs for you. I have been working on them for two months."

                                                                                                                       -{2 months?

                                                                                                                       -{What took you so long?

                                                                                                                        -{Sing it!

                                                                                                                       -{Good evening!

There are more comments today than usual. People came to my live broadcasts to have fun and listen to songs. That's what I thought. Now, there are people who just write angry comments. They seem to like it.Tapping my fingers on the guitar, I smiled at the camera and said, "No name yet. That's why I need your help. Let's get started."

I looked at my old guitar. I leaned a little forward, letting my fingers dance over the strings as I played a melody—something upbeat and catchy. My voice joined the music, effortlessly hitting the notes, the words flowing as if they belonged to me, even though they didn't.

                                                    "Running through the space

                                                    To find the dreams I lost

                                                    As time passes by

                                                    I am losing my voice

                                                    The echoes fade away

                                                    In the corridors of night

                                                    Chasing shadows that remain

                                                    Out of reach, out of sight

                                                    But I keep on running

                                                   Through this endless maze

                                                    Hoping to find

                                                    The dream with all of us…"

But as I played, the lyrics of my own song kept running through my mind. The contrast between the words I was singing now and the ones I had written last night felt like a sharp edge pressing against my skin. I wanted to sing my song, to let them hear the real me, but I knew I couldn’t. Not tonight. The minutes stretched into hours, and I lost myself in the rhythm of it all.

The screen was filled with comments. There were many of them. Someone liked my song and sent a lot of hearts. I smiled at them and thanked them. But at that very moment, one comment caught my attention.

-{Plagiarism. He can't play the guitar and has no voice at all. He also steals other people's songs and passes them off as his own. Just like all other bloggers. They can’t do anything themselves, but they only want money. Better stop.

Resentment arose inside. I wanted to prove the opposite to this person, but I couldn’t. It became scary; what if he was just waiting for such a reaction? And everything I said would be used against me. I hate people like that.

Squeezing my guitar, I continued the live broadcast. Pretending that I didn’t notice his comment, I kept playing. And all the while, the comments continued to flood in. They couldn't be stopped.

The broadcast was winding down now, my energy beginning to falter. I knew I couldn’t keep this up much longer, not tonight. "Okay, guys, I think that’s it for today," I said, forcing one last bright smile. "Thank you for hanging out with me! You know I love you all. See you next time!" As I clicked the "End Stream" button, the screen went dark, and I saw myself. The reflection wasn’t clear, but I noticed the smile. Too fake. The silence returned, heavy and suffocating. I leaned back in my chair, the smile fading from my lips as quickly as it had appeared. The guitar sat next to me, but I didn’t reach for it. I was tired of it.

***

She woke up with a start, her neck aching from the awkward position she'd fallen asleep in. The screen of her computer, now dimmed, displayed the aftermath of her broadcast—a list of comments, some supportive, others critical, all frozen in time. She blinked, trying to shake off the drowsiness that clung to her, and realized she must have dozed off right there at her desk.

With a tired sigh, she rubbed her eyes and glanced at the time. It was well past midnight. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the emotional toll of the evening had clearly drained her more than she realized. She pushed her chair back and stood up, intending to finally crawl into bed and get some proper rest.

But just as she turned off the computer and started toward the bed, a noise from outside caught her attention. It was faint, almost indistinguishable at first, but enough to make her pause. She stood still, listening, her senses now fully alert.

The noise came again—this time, it was clearer, a rustling sound, like something or someone moving through the bushes. Her heart skipped a beat, and she moved cautiously toward the window, peering out into the darkness.

At first, she saw nothing but the moonlit garden, still and silent. She was about to dismiss it as her imagination playing tricks on her when the noise came again, louder this time, accompanied by a shadowy movement near the fence.

Her breath caught as she squinted, focusing on a figure partially hidden behind one of the larger bushes. The person wasn’t just standing there; he was crouching low, as if trying to stay out of sight. She watched for a moment, her mind racing with questions. Who was this person, and what was he doing in her garden in the middle of the night?

It was then that she noticed the way the figure kept glancing toward the street, his body tense, as if he was waiting for something—or hiding from someone. The realization that he wasn’t simply lurking but was in fact avoiding detection from another party sent a new wave of unease through her.

Whoever this was, he was in trouble. And he had chosen her garden as their refuge.

She didn’t know what to do. Part of her wanted to help, to go outside and see what was happening. But the fear of the unknown kept her rooted in place. If this person was in danger, that meant danger could be close by, too close for comfort. She had to make a decision—and fast.

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