You sat at the piano and told yourself to breathe.

You’d practiced this song a thousand times—more. In empty rehearsal halls. In tiny rooms with cheap keyboards. In front of him, when he was still yours.

Back when he used to say, “Sing it again. Just once more. Please.” Back when he’d kiss your fingertips afterward, like the music lived there.

Now your fingers hovered over the keys, steady on the outside, burning on the inside.

You leaned into the mic.

“This piece is called Je te laisserai des mots.” You paused, eyes lowered. “I wrote it… for someone I don’t speak to anymore.”

You didn’t name him.

You didn’t have to.

The first few notes spilled out, soft and slow, like breath in cold air. Your voice followed—delicate, low, slipping into French like it was a dream you were half-afraid to wake up from.

Every lyric was a bruise. Every chord, a ghost.

And he was everywhere in it.

In the rhythm your fingers found without thinking. In the sharp inhale before the chorus, where he used to hold his breath with you.

Your voice wavered once—but you kept going.

Until the second chorus. You glanced up. Just a flicker. Just to ground yourself.

And then—

Drew.

Back row. Center. Watching you like the rest of the room had disappeared. Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see.

Your throat closed.

You missed the line. The entire chorus.

The keys carried on beneath you like they were waiting for you to return to yourself. And you did. Barely.

Your voice came back thinner, warmer.

You felt a tear track across your cheek and didn’t wipe it away.

By the last verse, your voice wasn’t just a voice—it was memory. It was love laced with absence. It was goodbye, dressed up in melody.

“Ramasse-moi,” “Quand tu voudras…”

You held the final note. Let it tremble, just barely, as your eyes fixed on the keys—anywhere but him.

Then came the applause. Loud. Rising. But it didn’t reach you.

Because he was still there, watching. Still ruining you in ways no one else ever could.