Chapter Ten:
Joyce is still shock and kept wandering what has really gone wrong? What exactly happened? Why is this unprounce change in James?
Joyce began to think back after her last call with James the first few months apart were magical in their own way. Their time zones barely aligned, but they made it work. Long texts filled with "I miss you"s, video calls where they shared performances, sent selfies in practice gear, and laughed like the world hadn't changed.
Joyce would send him videos of her dancing barefoot in a Brazilian courtyard to the sound of James' piano pieces. He would watch them on repeat, writing new melodies for her in return. It was art born from love.
But life, as it often does, got heavier.
The love ,joy , passion for each calls,text, social media with one another grow coal, unlike before.
As months keeps going by,time for one another began to grow cool.
Few months after James and Joyce began to get more deeply involved in their training as it is few weeks for them to round up their professional training.Late nights, extra rehearsals, networking, and studio sessions. Slowly, the calls became fewer. Messages delayed. The spontaneity of "I love you"s dwindled, and Joyce felt the silence more than ever.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to believe it was stress. That is why James could not call,chart ,text or have to call her on video calls as before
But then she saw the posts.
Two photos, one five days ago, one last week. In both, James was tagged-once playing piano beside a strikingly beautiful woman with piercing eyes, the caption reading: "Late night music with the insanely talented Camille 🎶"-and again, the two at a cafe with other musicians, but Camille's arm was on his shoulder.
James brushed it off. "She's just a classmate. We work together a lot. You know how social media is, Joy."But Joyce felt it.
Between Steps and Silence
Joyce one day sat by the window of her small studio apartment in Rio de Janeiro, her fingers curled loosely around a cup of lukewarm coffee. The sun had long dipped below the Brazilian skyline, leaving the city bathed in gold-tinted dusk. Yet her mind was thousands of miles away-in London, in France, anywhere but here.
It had been weeks since James last called her. Even longer since he said her name with the fire she used to recognize. The man who several times stayed up all night just to sync with her time zone now only replied to her texts after days-if he replied at all. Her calls rang out into silence, her chats were seen but ignored, her voice notes left untouched.
But his social media told a different story.
Every scroll brought a new image-James laughing over wine in Paris cafés, slow-dancing at rooftops, exploring antique bookstores-always with the same girl. The "France girl." by name Camille with a face Joyce could never forget. Every picture felt like a shard in her chest.
Was this the same man who used to write her poetry and sneak out of business meetings just to send her voice notes? The man who begged her to chase her dreams in Brazil but promised he'd wait?
Now, as the days closed in on the end of her one-year professional dance training, Joyce found herself caught in a crosswind of decisions.
On the one side was James-her fiancé, the man who once made her feel like the center of the universe, now orbiting someone else's galaxy.
On the other was Mr. Rafael.
Her instructor, charming, cultured, effortlessly kind. He never crossed the line but always lingered close enough for her to feel seen-truly seen. He knew about James, respected it, or at least tried to. But his admiration was no secret. He had confessed once, his voice low and trembling, that if she stayed in Brazil, he'd make sure the world saw her shine. "You're not just a dancer, Joyce," he had said one night after practice, "you're a star-and Brazil will be your sky if you let it."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe in herself.
Now, with only weeks left before the final curtain call, Joyce stood at a crossroads:
Should she return to London and try to fix what was broken with James-if there was anything left to fix? Should she fly to France and confront him face-to-face, take back what she felt was stolen? Or should she leave it all behind, accept Mr. Rafael's offer, stay in Brazil, and dance her way into the future she once only dreamed of?
There were no easy answers.
But what she knew was this: the Joyce who left London almost a year ago had changed. She had learned to stand tall, to move with purpose, to lead with grace-even when her heart was breaking. Whatever decision she made, it would no longer be about chasing someone else's love.
It would be about choosing her own.
Camille & Mr. Rafael
Joyce tried to hold on. She practiced harder than ever, pouring her ache into movement.However she also beging to think about Mr Rafael her instructor, his eyes is always on her to some points Joyce thinks he is given her preferential treatment. Her instructor, Mr. Rafael Oliveira, noticed certain changes and saw how she is unable to concentrate as before now,he noticed how distracted she is but didn't want to push her into voicing out what she is not yet ready to vomit so each time he discovered her to be distracted he will give her time to fixed herself, he has been so caring to her since her arrival at the training school. Mr Rafael is a man in his early forties, Rafael was an internationally renowned choreographer and producer-charming, intense, deeply passionate about dance.
He one day saw Joyce's pain before she even admitted it. He didn't push-at first.
"You dance like your heart is broken," he said one afternoon after rehearsal.
Joyce gave a sad smile. "Isn't that what makes good art?"
He didn't argue. But the next day, he gave her a solo performance to work on. "This will be your defining piece. Brazil will remember your name."
She threw herself into it-training long hours, bleeding through her shoes, crying in studio corners. And Rafael was always there-supportive, admiring.
Then came the dinner.
It wasn't formal. They'd just finished an intense rehearsal, and he invited her for food. It felt harmless-until he looked at her differently.
"You're incredible, Joyce. I've worked with many dancers. But none have your soul."
She swallowed hard.
"You deserve more than being someone's afterthought," he continued, voice soft. "Stay in Brazil. I'll sponsor your tour. Produce your work. Build a platform under your feet."
Then the words that changed the temperature in the room.
"Marry me, Joyce. Not now. But soon. I want more than your dance-I want you."
Joyce was stunned. She didn't speak for hours after that dinner.
Rafael didn't pressure her, only said, "You don't have to decide now. But think about it. Think about what you deserve."
A week remained before she was to fly back to the UK. She texted James, "Just checking-still arriving next Friday?"
He didn't reply until a day later. "Might need to delay. Some things came up with the conservatory. Maybe the week after."
No call. No voice.
Her chest felt hollow.
That night, she scrolled through James' social media.
Another post. Camille again. This time a short video-Camille singing while James played piano, their harmonies intimate, eyes locked.
No mention of Joyce. Not even a heart emoji under his photos anymore.
And still-no video call in weeks. Messages felt like obligation now. Not desire.
She sat on her balcony overlooking the lush hills of Rio, eyes damp.
Was this how love ends? Not in betrayal-but in slow detachment?
Was Camille just a colleague?
Was James too cowardly to say it was over?
And what about Rafael?
He was consistent. Present. Passionate.
He saw her. Every day. Pushed her to greatness. And he wanted her. Not just the dancer. The woman.
But Joyce still remembered James' laugh. His first song written for her. The letters they buried under that tree. The promises.
Joyce began think harder weather she should stick to their love ,words , promises or to throw away a lifetime for a man who couldn't even keep a phone call?
her mind begins to wanders weather she is just afraid of letting go truly?
"The Songs He No Longer Sings"
That same day, Joyce sat alone in the corner of the studio, where the last of the sunlight filtered through dusty windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The soft hum of an old speaker still played the song they used to rehearse to-their song. Her muscles ached from hours of dancing, but her heart ached far deeper, in ways she couldn't stretch or sweat out.
It had been since childhood that she first met James. A struggling but passionate singer, with eyes that held storms and a voice that could make time slow. He wasn't famous back then, but to her, he was everything.
Back then, he'd sit by the studio wall, guitar in hand, waiting for her to finish her routines. Sometimes he'd hum along softly, and other times, he'd call her name out mid-song-"Joyce, you're the fire in this verse"-twisting lyrics of famous tracks just to make her blush. He made every cover feel like it was written for her. She remembered how he once sang "A Thousand Years," and without skipping a beat, swapped "darling" for "Joyce." The entire room melted that day-and so did she.
He believed in her when she didn't. When her ankle gave out during a critical audition. When she cried backstage because the choreography wasn't working. James would whisper, "You're always the best. Don't let the world convince you otherwise." His belief held her up more than any stage ever could.
They were fire and wind-passion and fuel. She danced. He sang. They dreamed.
But dreams evolve. And sometimes, they divide.
When James got that invitation for his one year professional music training in France, she celebrated for him, even as her chest tightened. "One year ," he had said. "Just one year and I'm back. Then we can put our dreams together into reality together we can make it happen. You and me." She remembered nodding, swallowing the fear that whispered, What if something changes?
And something did.
Camille.
The name lingered in her mind like smoke-impossible to hold, but impossible to ignore. She saw her in a video clip. A jazz singer with a haunting voice and a smile that pulled James into a different rhythm. A rhythm Joyce no longer felt in sync with.
At first, he denied anything was different. "It's just music, Joyce. We're collaborating." But his texts slowed. His voice over the phone became a stranger's. He stopped asking about her rehearsals. The songs he used to sing with her name? Silent. As if Joyce had been erased from his melody.
Now, even his voice felt borrowed.
She scrolled through her messages-ones she never sent. Drafts that read "I miss you" or "Do you still believe in me?" But she never hit send. Pride? Maybe. Self-respect? Perhaps. Or maybe, deep down, she feared the answer.
A knock at the studio door startled her.
It was Maya, her choreographer. "You good?"
Joyce blinked back into the moment. "Yeah... just thinking."
"You've been dancing like hell lately. Whatever fire's in you-don't let it burn you out."
Joyce nodded. "I'm fine. Really."
But she wasn't. Not entirely. How do you grieve someone who isn't dead? How do you mourn a love that's still singing-but just not for you?
Yet even through the ache, she danced. She pushed harder, jumped higher, sweat and tears indistinguishable now. Because this was her dream too. And even if James had found a new muse, she still had something that was wholly hers.
Endurance.
She would not let heartbreak decide her story's ending.
Maybe one day, James would hear her name in a song again. Maybe he'd remember the girl who danced with her whole heart, and the boy who swore she was magic.
But until then, she had to keep going.
For herself
The Distance Between Verses
The weeks after James left for France had felt like a temporary pause.At first, they messaged constantly. Voice notes filled with laughter, sleepy "I miss yous" before bed, shaky phone calls in between his studio sessions. He told her about Paris, the cobbled streets, the underground bars, the music scene that pulsed with life. He said he wished she could see it too.
Then came Camille.
Joyce first heard the name in passing.
"Camille's helping produce one of the tracks," James had said casually. "She's got this incredible ear for harmony. You'd like her."
Joyce had smiled, but something inside her cooled.
After that, the messages grew shorter. Calls ended faster. He became vague. "Long rehearsals." "Bad signal." "Exhausted." The passion in his voice was still there-but it wasn't about them anymore. It was about music. About her. Camille.
One night, Joyce sat on her bed, wrapped in one of James's hoodie that Joyce took to Brazil with her. She clicked on a livestream he was tagged in. He was on stage at a jazz club, his voice smooth, low, pulling the crowd in.
Beside him, Camille stood. Beautiful. Composed. Effortlessly connected to him in a way that pierced Joyce's chest.
And then he sang.
A song they used to share-"Just the Way You Are"-but this time, no lyric change. No "Joyce" slipped in. Just the original words, for everyone and no one.
She closed the laptop slowly.
He had stopped singing to her.
The next morning, she showed up at the studio earlier than usual. She threw herself into the routine Maya had choreographed. Sharp turns, dramatic drops, emotional reach. Every move hurt, but it also healed. She poured everything into it-the love, the loss, the betrayal, the part of her that still hoped he'd walk through the door and say, "It's you. It was always you."
But he didn't.
Weeks passed.
Until one evening, a package arrived at her door.
No note. Just a vinyl sleeve.
His debut EP.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
His photo on the cover. Camille listed as co-writer on almost every track.
And then the last song: "Ghost in the Studio"
She listened.
The lyrics were vague, but she knew.
> You danced like thunder under low lights,
I sang to keep the silence at bay.
But the music moved on...
and I lost the words I used to say...
Her heart shattered quietly.
She wasn't even the muse anymore. Just a memory-a ghost haunting the background of a life he'd rewritten.
Joyce didn't speak to anyone for a few days. She went through the motions, but inside, everything felt numb.
Until Maya confronted her after rehearsal.
"You're not here," she said bluntly. "You're dancing, but your soul's elsewhere."
Joyce broke then. Right there on the studio floor. Years of emotion flooding out-everything she'd held in, every missed call, every rewritten lyric, every echo of his voice that no longer belonged to her.
"I don't even know who I am without him," she whispered.
Maya knelt beside her. "You're Joyce. The woman who dances like every beat could change the world. He didn't make you. He just saw what was already there."
Those words sat with her.
And for the first time in that week, Joyce looked in the mirror-not as James's love, not as a forgotten muse, but as herself.
She remembered why she danced. Not for applause. Not even for him. But because it was the only way she knew how to feel alive.
She poured that rebirth into her next performance-a solo piece. No vocals. Just piano and silence between movements. Her body spoke the pain, the passion, the love that still lingered but no longer controlled her.
And when the curtain fell, the applause was deafening.
Not because of who she loved.
But because of who she was.
Echoes of Us
Joyce sat on the rooftop of her apartment in, the city lights stretching far beyond the horizon. It was a warm night, but the breeze carried a whisper of something colder. She pulled her knees to her chest, the phone resting beside her, screen dark. No new messages.
She looked up at the stars, wondering if James could see the same sky from France.
They used to talk about this-nights like this.
"Promise me, Joyce," he'd said once, when they were still in London, both just accepted into their year-long programs. "No matter what, we keep in touch. We stay connected. Distance is just geography."
And she had promised. "Always. You're the melody. I'm the rhythm. We find our way back."
Those first few weeks apart had been a whirlwind-but beautiful. Long video calls, messages laced with heart emojis and voice notes that filled the silence of empty rooms. She'd send him clips of her samba rehearsals, drenched in sweat, grinning wildly. He'd reply with photos of him in tiny Paris cafés, writing music between sessions, always signing off with "wish you were here."
They planned to reunite after a year. A tour, a duet performance, even dreamed of opening a studio together-half music, half dance. The dream was still theirs... back then.
But months passed.
Time zones started to feel like barriers, not quirks.
Calls became rushed. Messages turned into "Sorry, can't talk. Rehearsal."
Sometimes she'd wake up to missed calls. Sometimes he wouldn't respond for days.
Once, she forgot his birthday.
Not because she didn't care. But because she was tired. Overworked. Immersed in a life that he couldn't touch anymore.
he tried not to resent it. After all, he was busy too. Twelve-hour rehearsals. Language barriers. New people. Constant pressure to prove himself in a culture that didn't slow down for foreign singers.
But still, the distance wasn't just physical.
They were changing-and the worst part was that they could feel it happening.
She remembered their last real conversation. Video call. Choppy connection.
> "You're different lately, Joyce."
"So are you."
"I just want to make it, you know? All of this... it has to mean something."
"It does. It did. But we're barely even us anymore."
Silence.
Then he said: "Let's just finish what we started. One year. We'll come back to each other."
She held on to that. Clung to it.
But somewhere along the way, the "we" had dissolved into "I" and "you."
Their dreams had evolved-but not together.
Tonight, on that rooftop, Joyce opened an old folder on her phone-"James 💙".
There were videos of him singing in the kitchen, one sock on, hair messy, using a spoon as a mic.
A clip of them slow dancing in their London flat, no music playing-just the rhythm of their laughter.
A voice note he sent her the night before she flew to Brazil:
> "Remember, you were born to dance. No matter what happens out there, you're never alone. I'm always with you... somewhere in the song."
Her eyes welled up.
Because part of her still believed it.
And part of her knew he wasn't that James anymore.
And maybe... she wasn't that Joyce either.
But the memory was real. The love was real.
And even though the distance and time had changed everything, she'd never regret any of it.
Because before the silence, before Camille, before ambition pulled them into different orbits...
They had something honest.
And that would always be hers to keep.
The Return of the Melody
James sat on the edge of a fountain just outside his conservatory in Paris, the soft trickle of water lost beneath the noise in his chest.
It was late-nearly midnight. The courtyard was quiet, the campus nearly asleep, but his thoughts refused to rest.
His final showcase was just weeks away. One last performance, and he'd officially be a graduate of one of Europe's top music academies.
But instead of celebrating, he felt... hollow.
Across the courtyard, Camille laughed with some friends under the dim glow of streetlights. She waved at him. He offered a half-hearted smile back. She was talented. They'd made great music together. They'd even shared a kiss once, in the rush of post-performance adrenaline.
But it hadn't lasted. And it hadn't felt real.
Because when the lights went out, and the applause faded, it wasn't Camille he thought of.
It was always Joyce.
He'd tried not to think about her these past few months. Tried to convince himself that life had simply... moved forward. That people grow apart and that's okay.
But he remembered the way Joyce used to wait outside the studio just to walk home with him. The way her laugh felt like rhythm-alive, unpredictable. The way she pushed herself until her legs shook but still smiled through the exhaustion.
He remembered singing her name into songs.
No one else had ever made him want to sing like that.
Not even Camille.
Earlier that day, he'd been clearing out his old voice memos. Too many drafts, too many lost choruses. And then he found one-nearly a year old. Labeled simply: "Joyce, my forever."
He pressed play.
> "You're my echo in every verse, my silence in every pause.
If music is life-then love, you're the cause."
He stared at the screen for a long time after it ended.
And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to admit the truth: he missed her. Desperately. Regretfully.
Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was fear. But he had let the most important person in his life drift away like background noise.
And he couldn't let it end like that.
That night, James drafted a message:
> James:
"Joyce... I know I'm the last person you want to hear from right now. I don't deserve your time, I know that. But the truth is-I miss you. I think I've always missed you. Even when I tried not to."
He deleted it.
Then retyped it:
> "Hey. I know it's been a while. Just wondering how you've been. Paris is nearly over. Coming back soon. Would love to talk."
That didn't feel right either.
He sighed.
Started a voice note instead. His voice cracked slightly as he began.
> "Hi, Joyce. I don't know if you'll listen to this, but... I just needed to say it. I should've tried harder. I should've called more. Wrote more. Fought more. I let everything we had fade under pressure, and that's on me. But if there's even the smallest part of you that still remembers who we were-who we are-I'd give anything to talk. Just once. No expectations. Just... honesty."
He paused, thumb hovering over the send button.
And finally, he hit send.
In Brazil, thousands of miles away, Joyce's phone lit up in her dressing room.
Voice note from James.
She stared at it for what felt like a lifetime.
Her heart beat louder than the music thumping outside the door.
The ache she'd buried just few days ago suddenly resurfaced.
He was reaching out.
But was she ready?
What Do You Do With a Ghost Who Comes Back?
The message sat there.
Voice note from James.
Joyce stared at it, unmoving, the backstage energy of the dance showcase buzzing all around her - makeup artists rushing, dancers stretching, someone laughing loudly down the hallway. But for her, time slowed.
She hadn't heard his voice in almost two months. Not in real time. Not just-for-her.
And now he'd sent her a message.
Her fingers hovered, hesitant, heart loud in her chest. She wanted to hear it. She didn't want to hear it.
What if it was just nostalgia?
What if it was too late?
What if it wasn't?
She pressed play.
His voice was lower, slightly raspier. Tired. Honest. It reached into her like a thread tugging loose a knot.
> "Hi, Joyce. I don't know if you'll listen to this, but... I just needed to say it. I should've tried harder. I should've called more. Wrote more. Fought more. I let everything we had fade under pressure, and that's on me..."
She closed her eyes. Sat on the bench.
> "...But if there's even the smallest part of you that still remembers who we were-who we are-I'd give anything to talk. Just once. No expectations. Just... honesty."
When it ended, she just sat there, staring at her own reflection in the mirror. Her makeup was perfect, her costume radiant, her posture strong. But inside, her heart was a battlefield.
Because hearing James again didn't bring relief.
It brought everything back.
The nights she cried into her pillow because he didn't reply.
The rehearsals she pushed through, holding on to memories of his encouragement.
The growing silence that had once been filled with music and love.
And still... despite all of it, a part of her lit up hearing his voice. Not out of need. Not out of loneliness. But out of recognition.
That was her James in that voice note.
Flawed. Late. Regretful. But real.
And she couldn't pretend it didn't matter.
After the showcase that night, when the applause had faded and the adrenaline had drained, Joyce sat in the quiet corner of her apartment, barefoot, knees pulled to her chest.
She played the message again.
Then again.
Then she finally recorded one of her own.
> "Hi... James." (a pause)
"I didn't expect to hear from you. I wasn't sure if I ever would. I'm not going to lie-it hurt. All of it. You going quiet. The feeling like I was loving someone who wasn't even there anymore."
(a long breath)
"But I guess... I was changing too. I was growing. We both were. And I kept waiting for one of us to say something before it was too late."
(voice softens)
"So maybe this is that moment. Or maybe it's just... closure. I don't know. But I heard your message. And... yeah. I still remember who we were."
She didn't say "I miss you."
She didn't say "I forgive you."
She didn't even say "I still love you."
Because some truths are too big to put in a single message.
But it was enough.
She hit send.
For the first time in months, the silence between them wasn't empty.
It was full of possibility.
Not a promise.
But a beginning.