Dissonant Harmony

The morning after the show tastes like adrenaline and regret.

Not regret for the kiss. Not even close. That kiss is still playing on a loop in my mind, like a haunting melody that won’t let go. No — it’s the weight that comes after. The kind of weight that settles on your chest when something begins, and you realize you have no idea where it’s going.

I wake up in my apartment, my jacket still thrown over the amplifier I forgot to turn off. The red standby light pulses like a heartbeat in the dark.

The group chat from the band is already lit up. Dante sent a blurry photo of us holding the trophy, captioned:

“Winners, bitches. 🎸🔥”

Lina, our drummer, replied with about twenty emojis. And then, a message from Dante, separately, just for me:

“Hey. We should talk. Just us.”

I ignore it. Not because I’m mad — not really — but because I’m afraid of what he wants to say. I know that tone. I’ve used it before. It’s the “I’m worried about you” tone. The “you’re getting too close” tone.

Instead, I text Clara.

Luna:

“Want to write something today?”

She replies instantly:

Clara:

“Already have chords in my head. Come over?”

Her place is a mess in the most poetic way. Posters half-peeling off the walls, mugs with dried coffee on windowsills, lyric scraps taped to the fridge like sacred relics.

She’s barefoot, wearing a hoodie way too big for her, and her hair is tied up in a messy knot that somehow still looks perfect. She hands me tea without asking what I want.

“You didn’t sleep either,” she says, more statement than question.

“I don’t think I’ve come down from the high yet.”

She gestures to the couch, where a cheap acoustic guitar waits. She sits, strums a chord, then another. It’s a soft progression, sad, almost hesitant.

I sit beside her, guitar in my lap. She watches me from the corner of her eye.

“I thought of this line,” she says. “‘I wasn’t looking for light, but you burned anyway.’”

I stop. Just for a second. Because it hits a little too close. Because I want to ask if that’s about me, but I’m afraid of the answer.

“That’s... raw,” I manage. “I like it.”

I start to hum something to fit the progression. Words come slowly. Not lyrics yet, just emotion in sound.

She harmonizes with me. Not perfectly — there’s tension in it. A dissonance that makes it more real. We build something broken and beautiful.

For the first time, I’m not writing for the crowd. I’m writing for her.

And maybe for me too.

Hours pass. The outside world feels suspended. Just me, Clara, and the messy universe between our voices.

But of course, the world has a way of clawing its way back in.

My phone buzzes.

Another message from Dante.

“Look. I’m happy for you. But if your heart’s getting pulled somewhere else, you owe it to us to be honest.”

I stare at the screen, feeling the guilt press down like a sudden chord change that ruins the mood.

Clara notices.

“You okay?”

I lie. “Yeah. Just band stuff.”

She doesn’t push. Just leans her head against my shoulder, gently, like she’s asking permission without words.

And I let her.

That night, I walk home alone. Not because I want distance, but because I need clarity.

I look at my hands. The same hands that played those riffs on stage. The same hands that wrote pain into poetry. The same hands she held, softly, without asking.

I want both.

The stage and the quiet.

The thunder of the crowd and the whisper of her voice in my ear.

But I know that dissonance doesn’t resolve on its own. Sooner or later, something has to give.

And I don’t know yet which note I’ll choose to hold.

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