Cry Me a River by Justin Timberlake 🎶
_________________________________________________________
The new locks arrive on the third day of January.
Yaz watches from the common room as two men in gray uniforms install them on the Practice Room door. The locks are heavy, metal, the kind that require codes instead of keys. The men work efficiently, not speaking, their tools clicking and whirring in the cold morning air. When they finish, they test the mechanism three times. Click. Beep. Click. The sound of the cage tightening.
Mrs. Okonkwo stands in the hallway, watching too. Her orange headwrap is neat today, perfectly wrapped, as if she has taken extra care with her appearance. Her bracelet catches the light. She does not look at Yaz. She has not looked at him since December, since the rebellion, since Thorne's calm voice contained everything Yaz tried to release.
The men leave. The new lock glows green, then red. Waiting.
Yaz counts the seconds until Mrs. Okonkwo moves. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. On seventeen, she turns and walks away, her footsteps soft on the tile, her bracelet clicking once, twice, a third time before the sound fades.
She does not say goodbye. She does not say anything.
She knew, Yaz thinks. The thought is cold. Clear. The kind of thought that settles into your bones and stays there. She knew what this was. What he was doing. What I was becoming. And she said nothing. Did nothing. Let it happen.
The betrayal crystallizes. It does not burn the way the anger burned. It freezes. It hardens into something sharp and permanent, something that will cut if he touches it wrong.
The other children sense the change.
They do not know what happened. Not exactly. The orphanage whispers, but the whispers are shapes without substance, rumors without facts. The boy in the basement made trouble. The boy in the basement got punished. The boy in the basement is different now.
Different is enough.
Yaz eats alone at breakfast. The long tables stretch across the dining hall, forty-seven children at various stages of chewing and talking and existing, and Yaz sits at the end of the table nearest the window, his porridge cooling in front of him, the gray film forming on its surface like ice on a puddle no one would skate on.
No one sits beside him. No one sits across from him. The chairs remain empty, a perimeter of absence that marks him as other, as marked, as someone to avoid.
He does not mind. That is the strange part. He should mind. He should feel the loneliness like a wound, the way he used to feel it when he was seven and his birthday went unremarked, when Tomás said "So?" and the word meant nothing matters, when the fence separated him from families who did not know he existed.
But now the loneliness feels different. Cleaner. A space carved out of the world where no one can reach him, where no one can disappoint him, where no one can pretend to care and then look away when caring would cost something.
He eats his porridge. It tastes like nothing. That is fine. Nothing is fine.
The Practice Room feels smaller.
Yaz notices this the first time he enters after the new locks are installed. The dimensions have not changed. The ceiling is the same distance from the floor. The walls are the same distance apart. The piano sits in its corner, the guitar on its stand, all ten instruments arranged in their familiar positions like soldiers waiting for orders.
But the room feels smaller. The red light blinks in its corner, and Yaz knows now that Thorne watches more closely, that every note he plays is recorded and analyzed, that the surveillance has tightened along with the locks.
He sits at the piano. His fingers rest on the keys. He is supposed to practice. That is what the schedule says. That is what Thorne expects. The routine continues, the lessons continue, the building toward something continues.
But his fingers do not want to practice.
His fingers want to press down and make sound. Not beautiful sound. Not practiced sound. Just sound. Anything to fill the silence. Anything to prove he still exists.
He presses a key. C. The note hangs in the air, then fades. He presses another. F. Dissonant. Wrong. He presses a third. A flat. The combination is ugly, jarring, the kind of sound that makes you wince.
He presses all three together. The ugliness becomes something else. Something that matches the feeling in his chest. Something that sounds like betrayal.
There, the Maestro says.
The voice has been quiet since December. Careful. The voice of someone watching from a distance, waiting for the right moment to speak.
There what?
That sound. That's what you're feeling. Don't run from it. Find it again.
Yaz lifts his fingers. Presses the keys again. C. F. A flat. The dissonance rings through the Practice Room, ugly and true.
Now, the Maestro says. Build from there.
The weeks pass.
January becomes February. The cold outside presses against the windows, frost forming in patterns that Yaz used to find beautiful, that he used to trace with his finger while imagining the world beyond the fence. Now he does not trace them. Now he barely looks.
Thorne visits every week. The visits are shorter now, more efficient. Thorne sits in his chair, the gold watch catching the light, and he asks questions. How is the practicing going. How is the new schedule working. How are you feeling, Yassine.
The last question is always the same. How are you feeling. Asked in that warm voice, with that warm smile, as if the answer matters, as if Thorne cares about anything other than the investment, the timeline, the product being refined in this basement cage.
"Fine," Yaz says. Every time. The same word. The same flat tone. The same refusal to give Thorne anything real.
Thorne nods. Notes something on his tablet. Touches his watch. Leaves.
The door closes. The red light blinks. The cage continues.
Mrs. Okonkwo crosses his path in the hallway on a Tuesday in late February.
They are both walking toward the common room. The hallway is narrow, institutional, the walls painted that particular shade of beige that exists only in places where people do not want to be. There is no way to avoid each other. No side corridor to duck into, no door to slip through.
She sees him. Her steps falter. Just slightly. A hitch in her stride that most people would not notice.
Yaz notices.
He watches her face as they approach each other. Watches the way her eyes flicker toward him and then away, as if looking at him hurts, as if his presence is a reminder of something she would rather forget.
Her bracelet clicks. Once. Twice. The sound of guilt she cannot name, the sound of conscience she cannot silence, the sound of someone who knows they are on the wrong side and cannot find their way back.
They pass each other. Neither speaks. The silence between them is thick, heavy, the silence of everything that should be said and will not be.
She could have helped. She could have spoken up. She could have done something, anything, to stop what was happening, to change what he was becoming.
She did not. She does not. She will not.
Yaz keeps walking. Behind him, he hears her bracelet click one more time. Then nothing.
March 15, 2155.
Yaz wakes in the dark. The dormitory is quiet, forty-seven children breathing in their beds, the ceiling tiles counting themselves in the shadows above. He lies still for a moment, listening. Someone coughs. Someone turns over. The building settles, creaking in the cold.
He is ten years old.
The thought arrives without celebration. Without acknowledgment. Without the whispered "Happy birthday" he used to give himself, back when he was seven and the days still held possibility, back when he counted the years because counting meant he was still here, still alive, still someone who might someday matter.
He does not whisper it now. Ten feels different from seven. Ten feels like a milestone that means nothing, a number that changes nothing, an age that brings him no closer to freedom and no further from the cage.
Once I was seven years old.
The phrase echoes in his mind. The first line of the first song, the words he wrote when he was small and hopeful and did not yet understand what the contract meant, what the protection would become.
That boy is gone. Yaz knows this. Feels it in the way his chest does not ache the way it used to, in the way his eyes do not sting with the tears he used to fight, in the way the loneliness has become not a wound but a wall.
He lies in the dark. The ceiling tiles count themselves. Somewhere out there, Suki is turning a year older too. She is eleven now. Or maybe she has already been eleven for months. He does not know her birthday. He never asked. Another thing he should have asked. Another thing he missed.
He gets up. Goes to his locker. Finds the smooth stone, tucked in the corner where he hides things that matter. Behind it, folded and worn from years of touching, is the note.
Keep counting. Keep making. I'll listen.
He reads it in the dark. The words are barely visible, but he knows them by heart now. They are etched into him, part of his bones, the only thing anyone has ever given him that felt like it was meant for him alone.
Suki believed in him. Before Thorne. Before the contract. Before any of it. She looked at him and saw something worth believing in.
He folds the note. Puts it back. Returns to his bed.
The birthday passes unremarked. The same as it was when he was seven. The same as it will be until he leaves this place.
But this time, he does not feel the sadness like a wound. He feels it like a fact. A truth. A thing to be noted and moved past.
He is ten years old. The boy who was seven is gone.
And in his place is someone who is learning to build walls instead of windows.
The song begins to take shape in April.
Yaz sits at the piano late at night, when the orphanage sleeps and the cameras record nothing that matters. His fingers find the dissonant chord again. C. F. A flat. The ugliness that matches the feeling.
But ugliness alone is not enough. The anger from "Killing in the Name" burned without direction. It accomplished nothing. This needs to be different. This needs to be controlled.
The pain wants out, the Maestro says. The voice is closer now. More present. Guiding. But pain can take many shapes. Rage is one shape. There are others.
What others?
Cold. Distance. The kind of pain that doesn't scream. The kind that waits.
Yaz thinks about this. His fingers move on the keys, searching. The dissonant chord shifts. The A flat moves down to G. Then to F sharp. The sound changes. Still dark, but different. Colder. The sound of something that has been hurt and has decided not to feel it anymore.
There, the Maestro says. That's closer. Now find the rhythm.
The rhythm comes slowly. A beat that repeats, that loops, that could go on forever without changing. The sound of routine. The sound of days passing without meaning. The sound of a cage that holds you not with locks but with time.
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Like a heartbeat that has learned to expect nothing.
He adds the cello. Not the hopeful cello from Song 2, not the Bach Prelude with its searching questions. This cello is darker. Lonelier. The sound of aching that has no one to ache to, pain that has no audience, grief that will never be witnessed.
The layers build. Piano. Cello. A string section that shimmers like ice, cold and beautiful and impossible to hold.
What is it about? the Maestro asks.
Yaz thinks about the hallway. The click of the bracelet. The eyes that would not meet his.
Betrayal.
Whose betrayal?
Hers. All of them. Everyone who knew and did nothing.
And what do you want to say to them?
The words come before Yaz knows he has them. They rise from somewhere deep, from the place where the hurt has hardened into something sharp.
I want to say: you did this. You let this happen. And now you want me to feel sorry for you? Now you want forgiveness?
He pauses. His fingers hover over the keys.
No. If you want to cry about what you did, then cry. Cry me a river. See if I care. See if I drown in your tears the way you let me drown in this cage.
Cry me a river, the Maestro repeats. That's the title.
The lyrics come in pieces.
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
You were my sun, you were my earth
But you didn't know all the ways I loved you, no
So you took a chance and made other plans
But I bet you didn't think that they would come crashing down, no
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
You don't have to say
What you did
I already know
I found out from him
Now there's just no chance
With you and me
There'll never be
And don't it make you sad about it?
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
You told me you loved me, why did you leave me all alone?
Now you tell me you need me when you call me on the phone
Girl, I refuse, you must have me confused with some other guy
The bridges were burned, now it's your turn to cry
Cry me a river
Cry me a river
Cry me a river
Cry me a river (Yeah, yeah)
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
You know that they say that some things are better left unsaid
And it wasn't like you only talked to him and you know it
Don't act like you don't know it
And all of these things people told me keep messin' with my head (Messin' with my head)
Should've picked honesty, then you may not have blown it, yeah
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
You don't have to say (Don't have to say)
What you did (What you did)
I already know (I already know)
I found out from him (Uh)
Now there's just no chance (No chance)
With you and me (You and me)
There'll never be
And don't it make you sad about it?
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
You told me you loved me, why did you leave me all alone? (All alone)
Now you tell me you need me when you call me on the phone (When you call me on the phone)
Girl, I refuse, you must have me confused with some other guy (Not like them, baby)
The bridges were burned, now it's your turn (It's your turn) to cry (So)
Cry me a river (Go on and just)
Cry me a river (Go on and just)
Cry me a river (Baby, go on and just)
Cry me a river (Yeah, yeah)
[Bridge: Timbaland & Justin Timberlake]
Oh (Oh, well)
The damage is done, so I guess I'll be leavin' (Oh, oh, oh)
Oh (Oh, well)
The damage is done, so I guess I'll be leavin' (Oh, oh, oh)
Oh (Oh, well)
The damage is done, so I guess I'll be leavin' (Oh, oh, oh)
Oh (Oh, well)
The damage is done, so I guess I'll be l-l-l-l-leavin' (Oh, oh, oh)
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
You don't have to say (Don't have to say)
What you did (What you did)
I already know (I already know)
I found out from him (Uh)
Now there's just no chance (No chance)
With you and me (You and me)
There'll never be
Don't it make you sad about it?
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
Cry me a river (Go on and just)
Cry me a river (Baby, go on and just)
Cry me a river (You can go on and just)
Cry me a river (Yeah, yeah)
Cry me a river (Baby, go on and just)
Cry me a river (Go on and just)
Cry me a river (Come on, baby, cry)
Cry me a river (Don't wanna cry no more, yeah, yeah)
[Outro: Justin Timberlake]
Cry me a river
Cry me a river
Oh, cry me a river
Oh, cry me a river
Oh, cry me a river (Cry me, cry me)
Oh, cry me a river (Cry me, cry me)
Oh, cry me a river (Cry me, cry me)
Oh, cry me a river (Cry me, cry me)
Oh, cry me a river (Cry me, cry me)
Oh, cry me a river (Cry me, cry me)
Oh, cry me a river (Cry me, cry me)
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
Yaz writes them in his head first, then transfers them to paper in stolen moments. The words are cold. Controlled. The words of someone who has been hurt and has decided that hurt will never touch them again.
He writes about the tears he will not shed. About the rivers of crying that others can do if they feel so guilty, so sorry, so full of regret for what they did and did not do. He writes about the coldness that protects, the distance that saves, the armor that loneliness becomes when you stop expecting it to end.
The melody carries the words. Haunting. Repeating. A loop that goes on and on, just like the days in the cage, just like the routine that never changes, just like the watching red light that blinks and blinks and blinks.
He does not play it for anyone. This is not for Thorne. This is not for Mrs. Okonkwo. This is not for the investors or the reveal or the timeline.
This is for him. This is proof that he can take the pain and make something from it. This is evidence that the cage cannot break him because he is learning to use the cage itself as material.
Good, the Maestro says, when the song nears completion. You're not fighting the pain anymore. You're shaping it.
Is that what you wanted me to learn?
It's what you needed to learn. There's a difference.
May arrives. The song is almost finished.
Yaz plays it through one night, start to finish, the piano and the cello layered in his recording, his voice cold and controlled over the haunting beat. The red light blinks in the corner. Let it blink. Let Thorne hear this. Let him wonder what it means, this song about rivers of tears, this anthem of betrayal that names no names but speaks every truth.
The final notes fade. The Practice Room is silent.
You cried once, the Maestro says. In the first week after the rebellion. I remember.
Yaz remembers too. The tears hot and useless, soaking into his pillow, accomplishing nothing except proving that he still felt things, that the numbness had cracked and left him exposed.
I won't cry again.
I know. That's what the song is about, isn't it? The tears you refuse to shed. The river you won't become.
It's about more than that.
I know. The Maestro's voice is gentle. Sad. The voice of someone who understands the cost of the armor being built. It's about becoming someone who doesn't need tears. Someone who turns the pain into something else. Into power. Into control. Into patience.
Yaz thinks about this. The transformation is not complete. But he can feel it happening. The wound is closing. The scar tissue is forming. And the scar tissue is harder than the skin it replaces.
June.
The song is finished. So is the transformation.
Yaz sits in the Practice Room, surrounded by instruments he has mastered, watched by cameras he no longer fears. The red light blinks. He looks at it directly. Does not look away.
The loneliness is armor now. If no one is close, no one can betray. If no one can betray, nothing can hurt. If nothing can hurt, then the cage is just a room. A room with walls. Walls have gaps.
Good, the Maestro says. You've turned pain into power. Now what will you do with it?
Yaz knows the answer. He has known it for weeks, maybe months. Since the rebellion failed. Since Thorne's calm contained his rage. Since he understood that patience was the lock and patience was the key.
I'm going to plan.
Plan what?
Everything. The cage has walls. Walls have gaps. I'm going to find them.
And then?
And then I'm going to walk through.
The red light blinks. The Practice Room is quiet. Outside, the orphanage continues its routines, children eating and sleeping and waiting for families who will never come.
Yaz does not wait anymore. Waiting is for people who expect things to change on their own.
He is going to make things change.
He had cried once, in the first week. In the dark, alone, the tears hot and useless. He did not cry again.
Instead, he wrote a song about crying. A river of tears he would never shed, turned into melody and control and cold, patient power. The song was finished. The boy who started it was gone.
And in his place stood someone who understood: if you cannot escape the cage, you learn its shape. You study its bars. And you wait.