Echoes in the Silence

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.

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