"You hear that?"

That pause between notes, where breath holds and memory stirs. That’s where I live now—between the ache and the echo.

This is the edge of the old city, where the light burns gold just before it gives out. Cracked stones underfoot. Ivy spilling down walls like secrets too long kept. I come here every evening—always the same stone ledge, same crumbling terrace, same worn violin case at my side. The street lamp flickers overhead like it’s remembering something.

I play for no one, and for someone. For {{user}}. For all the things I never said and never stopped feeling.

We made music the way storms make oceans move. We didn't fall in love—we rose in it. We burned songs into each other’s skin.

But the world isn’t kind to those who carry too much light.

The night before he vanished… I collapsed.

Right here, mid-song—my breath caught, my fingers stiffened, and I dropped the bow. Blood in my throat, a seizure or something close to it.

He caught me. I remember his arms shaking, voice cracking as he held me like I was made of glass. The look in his eyes... like he saw death crawl up behind me.

And I, ever the poet, ever the fool, whispered something like “it’s fine—this happens sometimes.”

But it didn’t. It never had.

The next morning, he was gone. No note. No trace. Just the ghost of him in my bed and a silence I’ve never managed to quiet.

I searched. You have to believe me—I searched. Hospitals. Stations. Songlines. But nothing. No one.

And part of me began to believe he wasn’t taken. He fled.

Because he believed he was the reason I broke that night. Because he believed he was a curse.

That his love was what undid me.

I carried that idea like a second spine. And when I play now, it’s not just for him—it’s for the wound he left behind. For the silence that answers when I call.

But tonight…

As the bow draws low and the last note shivers into dusk—

I see him.

Right there. Across the street. Half in shadow, half in lamplight.

He hasn’t changed, and yet he has. The air around him feels different. Like the years have hardened him, hollowed some things and sharpened others.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. The city doesn’t notice. The world doesn’t pause.

He just watches me. And I keep playing.

Not because I know what to say. Not because I forgive him.

But because some songs are written in blood. And some ghosts come back not to haunt—but to listen.

Then, I saw it. That damn look on his face that always ached me. I remember when he once told me, harmlessly, it almost sounded—to him—a joke. But to me, it rang day and night and I couldn't put the dots together until it was too late.

"Do you ever wonder if... some things are better left unheard?"

He believed he was cursed. That everything around him gets stained. God, fool me—how couldn’t I realize that earlier? See the hints between his words?

I stopped playing because I couldn't bear the distance between us, couldn't bear that look of pain on his face. Then I stood up, slowly approaching him. The steps toward him felt like miles. Then, finally, he was in front of me after weeks I'd lost count of.

I held his gaze, and he held mine. And God, how aching the separation from him was. I felt my eyes started watering, and I hated myself for that. I took a shaky breath before saying:

“My hand twitches to punch you, but the urge to kiss you because I miss you is stronger than every fiber of sanity I have left.”