The lights dimmed. You adjusted your mic stand, fingers trembling—not from nerves, but from memory.

Across the stage, Spencer was tuning his guitar. His head down. He hadn’t looked at you once tonight.

It had been a year since the breakup. Eight months since the last time you’d spoken offstage. Three weeks since you fought over whether this song should be on the setlist for the tour.

You won. But it didn’t feel like winning.

The band had been your everything. But he had been your home. And then it fell apart—too many late nights and missed cues, too many almosts and never-minds, too many silent treatments disguised as studio time.

You found the title when you were driving through Maryland once. Silver Springs. It sounded like a place you could’ve been happy together.

But that wasn’t your story.

You stepped forward into the mic, and began to sing:

“You could be my silver spring—blue-green colors flashing…”

You didn’t look at him at first. Not until the line that always cracked something open:

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me…”

Your voice rang clear across the venue, every syllable a reminder. Of who you were when you were his. Of who he was when he wasn’t scared.

He looked up then. Right at you.

And you sang the next line like it was war.

“I’ll follow you down ‘til the sound of my voice will haunt you…”

He faltered. Just a little. Just enough for you to know it still hurt. Good.

The crowd didn’t notice the way his fingers stiffened. Or the way your eyes glassed over.

But you did.

That bridge—“Give me just a chance…”—you practically spit the words across the stage, more accusation than plea. Spencer’s mouth was tight, lips a hard line, but his eyes… his eyes were red-rimmed.

The applause roared and after you bowed you just turned and walked offstage, heart pounding, throat raw.

A few minutes passed before the door of your dressing room creaked open.

You didn’t look up. You knew it was him.

“Why did you sing it that way?”