The café's little stage was usually reserved for open-mic poetry and acoustic nights, the kind where nervous voices stumbled through verses while the espresso machine hissed in the background. She hadn't planned on coming, but her friend had begged her to join.
She sat in the back, arms folded, sipping tea she didn't taste.
Then she heard it.
The first notes - soft, familiar, impossibly theirs.
Her breath caught. She lifted her eyes toward the stage, and there he was. Jacket rumpled, hair falling into his eyes, but his hands steady on the guitar. He played their melody, the one that had followed them from that first dance in the café to the storm in the park.
When he sang, his voice cracked - but it was honest.
I lost the rhythm when I lost you.
Every silence was a room I couldn't stand.
But our song - it still lives,
And I'm here, if you'll take my hand.
The room hushed. Even the clinking cups went still. He wasn't the best singer, not by far. But every word was raw, unpolished, carved from the truth.
Her eyes blurred. She hated him for making her cry, loved him for not pretending, and couldn't look away.
When the last note lingered, he scanned the crowd until he found her. "This is your song," he said into the mic, voice breaking, "and I don't want to play it without you."
The café erupted in gentle applause, but she didn't hear it. She was already moving, weaving between tables, her chest trembling with every step.
When she reached him, he set the guitar aside and stepped down from the stage.
"You're late," she whispered, a tear slipping free.
"I know," he said, brushing it away. "But I'm here now. And I'm not leaving the song again."
For a long heartbeat, they simply stood there. Then she let out the laugh he had missed more than air, and she kissed him - deep, certain, like a melody that had finally found its chorus again.
And when the crowd clapped again, they didn't notice.
Because the song was only theirs.