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.
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