The silence backstage was thicker than the velvet curtains shielding the stage from the audience. Amira stood alone in the corner dressing room, the faint hum of jazz notes bleeding through the walls. She'd just finished her first set, and the applause still echoed in her ears. But instead of basking in the glow of another successful night, her stomach churned.
She hadn't seen Luca since the awkward moment at her sister's flat—after Noah had stormed out, after she'd sat on the floor replaying every word. The air between her and Luca had shifted, too—no longer light and playful, but cautious and laced with something heavier. Something unspoken.
She reached for the bottled water on the makeup table, her fingers trembling slightly. Her voice hadn't cracked once on stage, but now, alone, her composure teetered.
A knock echoed at the door.
She didn't answer.
"Amira?" Luca's voice slipped through the wood—quiet, gentle.
Her heart kicked up. She swallowed. "Yeah. Come in."
He pushed the door open, wearing all black, his collar open, the top of his guitar case peeking behind his back. He leaned in the doorway, eyes scanning her like he was still trying to figure her out—like maybe tonight she'd finally let him.
"You were incredible tonight," he said, stepping inside. "You always are, but tonight... I don't know, it was like you were singing through every scar."
Amira blinked. "Maybe I was."
A pause. A breath. Luca set the guitar case down and leaned against the makeup table beside her. "Are you okay?"
She wanted to lie. She wanted to say she was fine and talk about anything else—music, the club, how that one drunk guy in the audience had shouted "Marry me" after her second song. But she couldn't fake it. Not with Luca. Not now.
"No," she said. "I'm not."
His eyes didn't flicker away. He just waited.
"I saw him again," she said. "Noah. Yesterday."
Luca's jaw tightened. His fingers flexed slightly on the edge of the table.
"I didn't plan on it. He showed up—said he made a mistake. That he didn't mean to break things off. That he regrets everything." Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. "And for a second… a very stupid, very fleeting second, I wanted to believe him."
Luca didn't interrupt. He didn't ask questions or push her. He just stood there, present, steady.
"I've been playing the whole thing in my head again," she continued. "Trying to figure out where I missed the signs. If I was too much, or not enough. If I somehow made it easy for him to leave."
"You didn't," Luca said immediately, voice low and sure. "Don't do that to yourself."
"But I can't stop. I gave him everything, Luca. My plans, my heart, my future—he was all of it. And he dropped me like I was nothing."
She turned to face him fully now, mascara smudged, breath shaky.
"I hate that he still has that kind of power over me. I hate that a part of me is still waiting for him to walk back into my life and fix everything."
Luca stepped closer, slow like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any second.
"He doesn't get to break you and then fix you like it's a puzzle," he said. "He doesn't get to walk in and out whenever he decides he's ready."
Amira stared at him, her breathing uneven.
"I know you're hurting," he added. "And I know I probably don't have the right to say this, but I need to say it anyway."
"What?"
"I care about you," he said. "Not just because you sing like the sky cracking open. Not just because you're stunning and fierce and complicated. But because even when you're breaking, you still show up. You still shine."
Her breath caught in her throat.
He took another step. Now, he was right in front of her. "I don't want to be a rebound, Amira. And I'm not here to compete with your past. But I won't pretend I don't feel something every time I look at you."
The room felt like it had tilted. The walls closed in, the lights dimmed, and the music outside faded into nothing. It was just him. Just them.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she whispered.
"You don't have to be," he said. "I'll wait."
Amira blinked, heart beating so loud she was sure he could hear it. She didn't move. Didn't speak.
Then her phone buzzed on the table.
She glanced at it. Her breath hitched.
Noah.
Noah: "Can we please talk? Just one more time. I need you to hear me out. Please."
The past clawed at her like a ghost with unfinished business.
Luca saw her expression shift. He looked down at the phone, then up at her.
"I'm not going to tell you what to do," he said. "But whatever choice you make—make it for you. Not for who you used to be with him. Not for guilt. For you."
Amira stared at the message. Her mantra echoed in her mind:
You can read a book twice, but you can't change the ending.
She didn't reply. Not yet.
"I need air," she muttered, grabbing her coat and walking past Luca.
"Want me to come with you?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I need to clear my head. Alone."
He didn't push. Just nodded, his eyes watching her like he was silently hoping she wouldn't vanish.
As she stepped outside into the cool London night, the fog wrapped around her like a veil of indecision. The city lights blurred. Her breath fogged the air.
She didn't know if she was walking toward closure, or toward chaos.
But she knew one thing: The stage wasn't the only place where truth was performed.
Amira's boots echoed against the damp pavement as she walked along the South Bank, the Thames glimmering beside her like a restless, dark ribbon. She passed street musicians, a couple laughing beneath a streetlight, and a girl crying quietly into her phone. The city was alive, yet she felt like a ghost drifting through it.
She found herself standing outside the dim little bar where she and Noah used to go after long days. Where he kissed her hand under the table. Where he told her she was his dream girl.
She didn't remember deciding to walk there. Her feet had simply carried her.
The door creaked open, and warm air rushed out. Jazz hummed from an old speaker. The bartender looked up but didn't say anything. And there he was.
Noah.
Sitting at their usual booth. Same spot. Same drink.
Amira's breath caught, but she kept walking. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hesitation.
He looked up and froze. His eyes flicked over her like she was a ghost he'd only dreamed might appear.
"Amira," he whispered.
She slid into the booth across from him and didn't speak.
"You came," he said, voice soft. "I wasn't sure you would."
"Say what you need to say." Her voice was hard, practiced. The stage had taught her that.
Noah's expression fell slightly. "Right. Okay."
He looked down at his glass, turning it in his hands.
"I don't know how to explain what I did without sounding like a coward. Because I was one. I was overwhelmed, I panicked… I thought maybe I was holding you back. That you were meant for more than… me."
Amira blinked, disbelief swimming in her gaze. "You broke up with me, in public, humiliated me, and disappeared. That wasn't 'protecting me.' That was destroying me."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know. And I hate myself for it every day."
"Do you?" she snapped. "Because you didn't hate yourself enough to call. Or text. Or make sure I didn't collapse into myself after everything."
"I was ashamed," he admitted. "I told myself you'd be better off without me, that you'd move on—"
"I did," she cut in. "I started over. I built something from the mess you left. And now you want to show up and… what? Rewrite the ending?"
His silence screamed.
"I loved you," she said, quieter now. "Like really loved you. And not the fairy tale kind. I loved your flaws. I loved your dark moods. I stood by you when you questioned everything, and you repaid me by vanishing like a ghost."
"I never stopped loving you," he said.
Her lip curled. "You sure know how to show it."
Noah leaned forward, desperate. "You're right. Everything you're saying, you're right. I hurt you. I destroyed something good. But Amira—if there's even a sliver of you that still feels something for me, please. Let me try to make it right."
She stared at him. Her heart, once stitched together with hope, now pulsed with confusion and anger.
"You don't get to just walk back into my life because you regret your choices," she said. "You made your decision. And I've been surviving the aftermath ever since."
"I want to fight for you now," he said. "Properly. Not like before."
Amira's breath hitched.
"And what if I don't want to be fought for?" she whispered. "What if someone already sees me—really sees me—and didn't have to lose me first to realize it?"
Noah froze. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You're seeing someone?"
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
"Is it that guy from the club?" he asked. "The one you sing with?"
Still, silence.
His jaw tensed. "Right. That didn't take long."
Her eyes flashed. "Do not pretend like you have the right to be angry."
He stood, throwing cash on the table. "I guess I was too late."
"You were always too late," she said coldly.
He looked at her one last time, eyes glossy with something that looked like pain—but it didn't move her.
Then he left.
Just like before.
But this time, she wasn't shattered. She was still sitting upright, breathing, and stronger than she ever was with him.
—
Back at the club, the hallway lights buzzed overhead as Amira stepped in through the back entrance. Luca was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. When he saw her, his shoulders dropped just slightly—relief, cautious hope.
She didn't speak. She walked up to him and stood inches away.
"I saw him," she whispered.
"I figured," he said gently.
"I told him it was over."
Luca blinked, his mouth parting slightly. "Yeah?"
Amira nodded. "I meant it. For the first time, I really meant it."
He searched her eyes, like he was trying to see if the storm had truly passed.
And then she added, "But I'm still not ready. Not for something new. Not yet."
His gaze didn't falter. "I told you I'd wait."
She smiled softly. "I remember."
A beat passed between them. Not quite a kiss. Not quite a goodbye.
But something in between.
—
Later that night, Amira sat in her room with her phone in her lap. Her fingers hovered over her journal app, and she typed:
August 3rd.
I let go today. Not just of him, but of the version of me that waited by the phone, wishing things could go back.
I think she's gone now.
I think… I'm finally okay with that.
And as she looked up at the moon hanging outside her window, she didn't feel empty.
She felt like she'd finally closed a chapter.
Even if the next one scared her.