They used to laugh the loudest during rehearsals, always tuning their guitars in sync, always finishing each other’s riffs like some private language. Fans loved it — two electric guitarists in love, side by side on stage, chords crackling with tension and chemistry. In interviews, Tom would glance at {{user}} mid-answer, waiting for her to jump in, and she always did. They were magic. At least, they used to be. But after the breakup, the silence grew louder than the music.

They still played every show. Still shared the stage. But now, Tom stood stage right. {{user}}, stage left. Not an inch closer. No more shared mics. No more shoulder nudges. Even in interviews, he’d glance her way, out of habit, and blink it away when he realized she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Fans noticed. The comments rolled in. “Why aren’t they beside each other anymore?” “Is something wrong?” And something was. They weren’t in love anymore — at least, not the same way. They were no longer lovers. But they were still in the same song.

It was an interview this time. Casual, live, with fans watching them inside the room too. The five of them sitting close. The energy was light, the host cracked a joke about the band’s chaotic start, and everyone laughed. Everyone except {{user}}, who was quietly twirling her microphone, eyes on the floor. Then came the question. “So, you guys have been playing together for years now — how do you manage to keep the chemistry alive on stage?”

Tom didn’t even look around. He just leaned into the mic, answering instinctively, eyes fixed on the table in front of him. “It’s easy when you’ve been playing next to someone who knows exactly how you sound… even when you don’t say anything. Especially when you love them, right?”