The school's charity showcase arrived quickly.
Aurora signed up to sing.
Elias hadn't signed up for anything.
He had planned to avoid the entire night.
But when Aurora asked him quietly, "Sing with me?", Elias had shaken his head.
"I can't. Not in front of everyone."
She accepted it.
Or at least pretended to.
The night of the showcase, the auditorium filled to bursting—students, parents, teachers.
Aurora waited backstage, heart racing. She wore a simple dress, hair tied back, lavender notebook in hand.
She wasn't performing the piece she originally planned.
She was performing The Girl in the Hallway.
The one Elias wrote.
Alone.
When her name was called, she stepped onto the stage slowly, gripping the microphone.
"This song," she said softly, "was written by someone who doesn't know how incredible he is."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Elias, standing hidden in the wings, froze.
Aurora looked directly into the darkened corner where he stood—even if she couldn't see him.
"This is for you," she whispered.
And she began to sing.
Her voice was soft at first—gentle, aching, intimate.
Every word a confession.
Every note a promise.
Elias felt the world tilt.
She wasn't hiding.
She wasn't protecting herself from rumors.
She wasn't afraid.
She was singing his music.
Their truth.
Tears burned her eyes.
Her chest ached.
Halfway through the song, she faltered.
Her voice shook.
Her throat closed.
And then she saw him.
Elias stepped out of the shadows—slowly, trembling—and walked toward the piano.
Aurora's breath broke into a sob of relief.
Elias sat at the piano.
Lifted his hands.
And began to play.
The audience went silent.
Together, they finished the song—piano and voice weaving into a moment that was tender, raw, and undeniably theirs.
When the final note faded—
The auditorium erupted.
But Elias only heard one soft whisper from Aurora as she leaned close:
"Thank you for letting them see you."