Rain pelted the windows of Fitzwilliam's Books as I ducked inside, shaking water from my jacket. The air, thick with the scent of old paper and cinnamon tea, wrapped around me like a familiar embrace. Behind the counter, Mr. Fitzwilliam nodded, his gray eyebrows lifting in recognition.

  "Back again, Stella?" he asked, adjusting his round glasses.

  "Just browsing today," I said, heading toward the music section. My fingers brushed the spines of composer biographies I'd studied for years.

  Wandering the narrow aisles between towering bookshelves, I enjoyed the quiet. Only a handful of customers moved through the shop, their presence a mere whisper against the steady patter of rain.

  I loved days like this, when I could lose myself among forgotten musical biographies and dusty sheet music collections, the sound of the rain outside a soft, rhythmic murmur.

  Turning the corner, I collided with someone. A flurry of sheet music scattered to the floor, white pages fluttering like startled birds.

  "I'm so sorry," I said, dropping to my knees to gather the scattered sheets.

  The man crouched opposite me, his voice even. "It's fine."

  I looked up, and froze. Miles Reed. The Miles Reed. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and those intense blue eyes, the same ones I'd seen in music magazines, stared back at me. He wore a simple gray sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal ink-stained fingers. A composer’s hands.

  "You're Miles Reed," I blurted.

  One corner of his mouth lifted. "And you are?"

  "Stella. Stella Barnes." I handed him the stack of music I'd gathered. "I saw your last concert at Carnegie. Your Third Symphony was..." I struggled for words that wouldn’t sound like gushing.

  "Flawed," he finished.

  "I meant unexpected."

  He tilted his head. "Most critics weren’t that kind."

  "Critics crave the familiar, with a slight twist. You gave them something entirely new."

  I stood, clutching one final sheet I’d overlooked. The paper, thin and slightly yellowed, was covered in hurried pencil notations, crossed-out phrases, question marks.

  He took it from me, his fingers brushing mine. "Are you a musician?"

  "Trying to be," I admitted, tucking a strand of red hair behind my ear, the gesture suddenly feeling awkward. "I teach piano at Manhattan Music Academy. Mostly to kids who’d rather be battling aliens on a screen than practicing scales."

  Mr. Fitzwilliam appeared, his round face flushed, clutching a leather-bound book. "Miles! I found that collection of Ravel manuscripts you asked about, tucked away in the rare editions section."

  "Thanks, James." Miles tucked the book under his arm, the leather creaking softly. He glanced at me again, his eyes a startling shade of blue. "Nice to meet you, Stella Barnes."

  "You too," I murmured, watching as he disappeared into the narrow aisle, his cologne, faintly spicy, lingering in the air. Moments later, the bell above the door chimed softly, and he was gone, vanishing into the rainy street.

  I lingered in the shop for another hour, the silence broken only by the rustling of pages and the distant hum of traffic. When I finally left, a biography of Clara Schumann I didn’t need in my bag, the rain had ceased. The streets glistened under the afternoon light, the wet pavement reflecting the sky like a dark mirror.

  As I walked the ten blocks to my apartment, the city's usual clamor softened by the recent rain, those fleeting moments with Miles Reed replayed in my mind, a strange warmth spreading through me. A melody without a name.

  Three days later, I sat at my usual table at Melody Café, laptop open, headphones on, wrestling with a composition that refused to take shape. A shadow fell across my screen, and the chair opposite me scraped against the floor.

  "Mind if I join you?" Miles asked, his voice a low rumble. "Every other table is taken."

  I yanked off my headphones, nearly knocking over my coffee. "Sure. Of course."

  He set down his cup, his gaze lingering on my screen. "You compose?"

  "Trying to," I admitted, snapping my laptop shut. "Nothing worth hearing."

  "I doubt that." He took a sip of his coffee. "What were you working on?"

  "Just a string quartet. Nothing special."

  "Let me hear it."

  I laughed, nerves fluttering in my stomach. "No way. That’s like asking Shakespeare to critique your haiku."

  "Shakespeare might’ve appreciated haikus." He tapped my laptop, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Come on."

  Against my better judgment, I opened the file and handed him my headphones. His face remained unreadable as he listened, eyes closed, lost in the music. Two minutes passed before he removed the headphones.

  "You’ve got something there," he said quietly. "The middle section, especially. The transition between major and minor is... unexpected."

  "Really?" I asked, unable to keep the hope from my voice.

  "I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it." He handed back the headphones. "Where did you study?"

  "Juilliard. But I dropped out in my third year. Money." I shrugged, trying to sound casual. "You?"

  "Curtis Institute." He stared into his coffee, a shadow crossing his face.

  I regretted asking immediately, everyone knew he had graduated from Curtis.

  "I'm stuck."

  "Stuck?"

  "Writer’s block. For six months." He glanced up, his eyes dark with frustration. "I have a major concert in eight weeks and nothing new to show. My agent’s panicking."

  "That must be tough," I offered, knowing the words felt thin and useless.

  "It’s more than tough. It’s..." He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "Sorry. I don’t usually dump my problems on strangers."

  "We’re not exactly strangers now," I said, warmth creeping into my voice. "Fellow musicians and all."

  He smiled then, an unguarded, genuine smile that softened the sharp edges of his expression, erasing the brooding intensity I’d seen in photographs.

  "How about dinner tonight?" he asked. "I could use a conversation that doesn’t involve deadlines or expectations."

  My heart skipped a beat. "I’d like that."

  He pulled out his phone. "Your number?"

  I recited it, watching him save it.

  "There’s a Thai place on Sullivan Street. Seven o’clock?"

  "Perfect."

  He stood abruptly, a sudden urgency in his movements. "And Stella?"

  I looked up. "Yeah?"

  "Bring your quartet. I want to hear the rest."

  A thrill ran through me.

  Later that evening, in my small apartment, Maya sprawled across my bed while I tried on a third outfit.

  “So he just appeared at your café? That’s some romantic comedy stuff right there.”

  “It’s not romantic anything,” I said, tossing aside a blouse. “He needs a friend who gets it.”

  “Gets what?”

  “The pressure.” I pulled a green sweater over my head. “He hasn’t written anything in months, and he’s got this huge concert coming up.”

  Maya sat up, her eyes narrowing. “And this dinner is…?”

  “Just dinner.” I checked my reflection. The sweater brought out the green in my eyes. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re into him, and you’re trying very hard to convince yourself otherwise.”

  “He’s Miles Reed. Every musician in New York is ‘into him.’” I grabbed my bag, a touch of defensiveness in my voice. “This is just two colleagues having dinner.”

  Maya flopped back down, a knowing smirk on her face. “Sure it is.”

  “Don’t wait up,” I called over my shoulder.

  “I won’t,” she sang back.

  The Thai restaurant was small and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of lemongrass and chili. Miles was already there, sitting at a corner table, nursing a beer. He stood when he saw me, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  “You look nice,” he said, his voice warm.

  “Thanks.” I sat down, a sudden flutter of nerves in my stomach. “So do you.”

  “I ordered spring rolls. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Perfect.”

  Conversation flowed easily, music, composers we loved, performances that had moved us, teachers who had shaped us. He told me about growing up in Boston with parents who pushed him toward medicine until they heard him play Chopin at twelve.

  “They knew then?” I asked, intrigued.

  “My father cried. Actually cried.” Miles smiled at the memory, a soft light in his eyes. “He went out the next day and bought me a better piano.”

  “Lucky. My parents thought music was a nice hobby, but not a career.”

  “Hence dropping out?”

  I nodded, a touch of bitterness creeping in. “Money ran out. They offered to help if I switched to business.”

  “And you didn’t.”

  “Couldn’t.” I speared a piece of tofu, the texture soft against my fork. “What about you? Did you ever consider quitting?”

  His eyes darkened, the light fading. “Every day for the last six months.”

  “What happened six months ago?”

  He sighed, the sound heavy. “Mixed reviews on my Third Symphony. Some called it genius, others called it self-indulgent. Then my girlfriend left. Then the silence started.” He took a long drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for my life story.”

  “I did, actually.” I met his gaze, steady. “I want to know.”

  Something shifted in his expression, a vulnerability that made my heart ache.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  We walked through Greenwich Village, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the restaurant’s warmth, our shoulders occasionally brushing, an unspoken acknowledgment of the growing intimacy between us. The stars were hidden behind the city lights, but the streetlamps cast a soft glow on the wet pavement.

  He took me to a tiny jazz club, the sound of a saxophone spilling out into the night. We squeezed into a booth in the back, the music a comforting backdrop to our conversation.

  “I come here when I can’t write,” he said, his voice low. “Something about watching other musicians enjoy themselves… it helps.”

  We stayed until midnight, talking between sets, our bodies gradually moving closer in the cramped space, the music weaving a spell around us.

  When he walked me home, he didn’t try to kiss me. Instead, he squeezed my hand, a simple gesture that spoke volumes.

  “Dinner again tomorrow?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.

  “Yes,” I answered too quickly, heat rising to my cheeks.

  He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that made my heart skip a beat.

  “Goodnight, Stella Barnes.”

  Dinners multiplied, from one to two, then five. Soon, we were meeting every day, walking through Central Park, the city's green heart pulsing around us, visiting museums where whispers floated through vast halls, cooking dinner in his upscale apartment, the grand piano gleaming in the corner, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline.

  We developed rituals, small anchors in our days. Coffee at Melody Café on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the aroma of roasted beans mingling with our laughter. Pizza and obscure movies at my cramped apartment on Wednesdays, the flickering screen casting shadows on our faces. Sunday mornings at the farmer’s market, where Miles bought too many vibrant vegetables, a quiet testament to his unspoken hopes, and I bought fresh flowers for my nightstand, a splash of color in my quiet space.

  I learned his habits, the way he rubbed his left temple when thoughts tangled in his mind, the intricate rhythms he tapped on any available surface, a silent language of his restless creativity. How he took his coffee black in the morning, sharp and unyielding, but with cream after noon, a softened indulgence. He learned that I hummed while cooking, a melody in time with sizzling pans, that I couldn’t sleep without a book nearby, a portal to other worlds, that I collected vinyl records of pianists I admired, their music a tangible thread to the past.

  Two weeks after we met, six weeks before the concert, Miles played something for me, a fragmented melody that stopped and started, uncertain. We sat side by side on the piano bench, our thighs brushing, a quiet intimacy sparking between us. His fingers hesitated over the keys.

  “That’s all I have,” he murmured, hands falling into his lap. “Six months of work, and all I’ve got is thirty seconds of music.”

  I stayed close, my voice gentle. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s nothing.” He closed the piano lid with a sharp snap. “Agent Miller called twice today. The symphony is already advertising the premiere of my new work. Tickets are selling out.”

  "Can't you postpone?"

  “And admit I have nothing?” He exhaled, frustrated, pacing the length of the room. “That would end my career.” His hands raked through his hair, his voice raw. “I used to hear music everywhere, in my sleep, in the shower, walking down the street. Now there’s just… silence.”

  I didn’t have the right words, so I wrapped my arms around him instead. He held on tight, his face buried in my neck, his breath warm against my skin.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This isn’t your problem.”

  But it had become my problem, because somewhere between the bookshop and this moment, I had fallen in love with him. Not with Miles Reed, the celebrated composer, but with the man who left his clothes on the bathroom floor, who laughed at terrible puns, who looked at me like I was something precious.

  That night, we made love for the first time, our bodies moving together like a long-awaited song. Afterward, as rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the window, he traced slow patterns on my shoulder, his touch a silent question.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked softly.

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  "That I don't deserve this. You."

  I propped myself up on one elbow, searching his face. “Why not?”

  “You’re talented, brilliant, beautiful. And I’m…” He exhaled, the weight of doubt pressing down. “A fraud.”

  "Don't say that."

  "It’s true. All those people buying tickets, they expect greatness. And I have nothing to give them."

  I kissed him gently, a quiet promise. “You’ll find it again. The music.”

  He pulled me closer, his arms wrapping around me like a lifeline. “I hope you’re right.”

  In the weeks that followed, our lives intertwined completely; half my clothes migrated to his apartment, my toothbrush stood next to his. We grocery shopped together, the vibrant colors of fresh fruits and vegetables forming a backdrop to our laughter. We cooked side by side, the kitchen filled with the scent of spices and easy conversation. At night, we slept wrapped around each other, our bodies seeking warmth and comfort.

  I introduced him to Maya over dinner. When Miles stepped away to the bathroom, she kicked me under the table.

  "You're in deep," she whispered.

  “I know,” I admitted, the weight of inevitability settling in my heart.

  I met his agent, Miller, a sharp-dressed man with calculating eyes that dissected my presence. When Miles stepped away to take a call, Miller turned to me, his voice clipped.

  “Miles needs to focus. This concert is crucial to his career.”

  “I know that,” I said evenly.

  “Do you?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Because he was making progress before you came along.”

  The comment stung, sharp, unexpected, though I knew it wasn’t true. Still, I wondered who else blamed me for Miles’s creative drought, the silent accusation hanging in the air.

  I got my answer at a gallery opening Miles dragged me to, the room thick with the scent of expensive perfume and murmured conversations. A tall, elegant woman approached, champagne flute in hand, her eyes glittering with cool detachment.

  “Miles,” she said, kissing both his cheeks, the gesture intimate, possessive. “It’s been too long.”

  “Isabelle.” His grip on my hand tightened, a silent reassurance. “This is Stella Barnes. Stella, this is Isabelle Chen.”

  The ex-girlfriend.

  She gave me a slow once-over, her smile razor-sharp, a subtle challenge in her gaze. “Charmed.”

  "Likewise," I managed, my voice tight.

  She turned back to Miles, her tone laced with cruel sweetness. “How’s the new piece coming? I heard it’s been… challenging.”

  “It’s coming,” he said, his jaw tight.

  “Wonderful.” She took a slow sip of champagne, watching him over the rim. “I can’t wait to hear it. Your work has always been so… revealing.”

  When she finally walked away, the scent of her perfume lingering, Miles exhaled and pulled me outside into the cool night air.

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “She still cares about you,” I said quietly.

  He let out a bitter laugh. “She cares about being associated with success. When the reviews turned mixed, so did her interest.”

  "Her loss," I murmured, squeezing his hand.

  He looked at me then, really looked at me. “I love you, Stella.”

  The words settled between us, unexpected and perfect.

  A slow, certain smile touched my lips. “I love you too.”

  And then he kissed me, deeply, as if sealing a promise, a silent vow against the weight of the world’s expectations.

  That night, at 2:00 AM, I woke abruptly. A melody, threaded with moments of breathtaking beauty, echoed in my mind. It had come to me while I watched Miles sleep beside me, his breathing a soft, rhythmic counterpoint. Carefully, I slipped out of bed, leaving him undisturbed.

  Driven by an urgent, electric energy, I returned to my apartment to work.

  I hunched over my keyboard, headphones on, fingers flying across the keys. The music poured through me, a torrent of notes and emotion. It sounded like Miles’s work, yet beneath it, subtle and unmistakable, was my own voice. I worked through the night, fueled by coffee and something more potent: the desperate need to capture it before it slipped away.

  By morning, the first movement was complete.

  Over the next week, I finished it, polished it, orchestrated it, pouring my heart into every note. I told no one. Not Maya. Especially not Miles. The secret sat heavy in my chest.

  That week, our time together dwindled. He was consumed by endless meetings with sponsors, and relentless interviews. When we did manage to steal a few moments, exhaustion clung to him, dark circles under his eyes, his smile forced and brittle.

  “Let’s go away,” I suggested one night as we lay in bed, the distant hum of the city a constant backdrop. “Just for a weekend. Get out of the city.”

  “I can’t. Not with the concert so close.”

  "Exactly why you should. Clear your head."

  He rolled toward me, brushing his thumb along my cheekbone. “What did I do to deserve you?”

  “You have terrible taste in movies and you make great omelettes,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m a simple woman.”

  He laughed, a real laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I do make great omelettes.”

  For a fleeting moment, he looked like himself again, not the stressed, burdened composer, but the man who had once appeared at my table at Melody Café. I memorized his face then, tucking the moment away like something precious. A fragile memory to hold onto.

  Four weeks before the concert, Miles looked worse than ever. He had barely slept, hardly eaten, and his energy was drained. His spirit seemed dimmer with each passing day. We sat in his living room, his gaze distant.

  “Miller wants to see what I’ve got so far,” he said, his voice flat. “I told him I needed more time.”

  I took a deep breath. "I have something to show you."

  His eyes flickered with curiosity, but mostly exhaustion. “What is it?”

  Wordlessly, I handed him a USB drive. “Just… listen to it. With an open mind.”

  He plugged it into his laptop, put on his headphones, and pressed play. I watched his face, searching for a reaction. First, surprise. Then focus. Then something like awe. When the music finished, he removed the headphones slowly.

  "You wrote this?" he asked.

  I nodded, a knot tightening in my stomach, hope and fear tangled together.

  "For me?"

  “It’s yours if you want it,” I said quietly, the words an offering, heavy with meaning.

  His eyes searched mine. “Stella, I can’t…”

  “You can,” I insisted. “It’s in your style. No one would question it.”

  “That’s not the point.” He shook his head. “I can’t take credit for your work.”

  “Think of it as a collaboration. Uncredited.” I reached for his hands, my touch pleading. “Please, Miles. You need this.” And I need you to be whole again.

  He looked down at our joined hands, his expression troubled. “Why would you do this?”

  Because I love you. Because I’m terrified of losing you, and the music you make.

  “Because I believe in you.”

  He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “This is wrong.”

  “Is it? Musicians have done this throughout history. Assistants, students, wives…” My voice trailed off, the words suddenly hollow. Am I really justifying this?

  His gaze sharpened. “I don’t want you to be my assistant or my student.” A pause. “And you’re definitely not my wife.”

  “Not yet,” I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them, a reckless confession.

  His eyes widened slightly, surprised. Heat crawled up my neck.

  "I didn't mean… "

  He cut me off with a kiss. Soft, searching. When he pulled back, his expression was solemn, his eyes dark with something deep and unspoken.

  “Let me think about it.”

  Two days later, he called me. "Come over."

  “I made some changes,” he said, his fingers lingering on the keys. “If we do this, it should be a true collaboration.”

  Relief washed over me, warmth spreading through my chest. “You’re going to use it?”

  “On one condition.” He patted the bench beside him, a silent invitation. “We tell the truth afterward. Once the concert is over, we announce it was co-written.”

  I sat down, a flicker of apprehension in my heart. “Miles, that might not…”

  "I need this, Stella. For my conscience."

  I nodded, though I suspected his agent would fight the idea tooth and nail. “Okay.”

  For the next three days, we refined the piece together, our creative energies intertwining. His changes were subtle but profound, weaving his unmistakable voice into the framework I’d built, like a delicate counterpoint. When we finished, it was something neither of us could have written alone, a perfect fusion of our styles, a testament to our shared passion.

  Agent Miller, surprisingly, loved it. His eyes gleamed with calculating approval, already envisioning the headlines. The orchestra began rehearsals, the music filling the concert hall with its vibrant energy. Miles threw himself into preparation, working closely with the conductor to perfect every detail, his focus sharp and unwavering.

  The night before the concert, we lay awake in his bed, the city’s distant hum a lullaby, rain pattering against the windows, lights casting shifting shadows across the ceiling.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked, my voice soft in the quiet room.

  “Terrified.” His fingers traced delicate patterns on my bare shoulder. “But not about the performance.”

  "What then?"

  He hesitated, then propped himself up on one elbow. “What comes after.”

  I met his gaze. “We’ll handle it together.”

  He kissed me, slow and deep, a silent vow. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About being my wife.”

  My breath caught. “Miles…”

  “Not now. Not tomorrow. But someday.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch impossibly gentle. “I want you to know that’s where I see this going.”

  I kissed him then, because words felt inadequate. Because joy and fear and overwhelming love swelled in my chest, a silent symphony of emotions too vast to contain.

  The night of the concert arrived, a palpable tension hanging in the air. I sat next to Maya in the fifth row, gripping the armrest as if it could steady my nerves.

  “You look like you might throw up,” Maya whispered, her eyes flickering with concern and amusement.

  “I’m fine,” I said, though my voice came out tight.

  She hesitated, then asked, “How does he handle it?”

  I knew what she meant. I had finally confessed what I’d done, swearing Maya to secrecy. “We’re going to announce it was a collaboration after the concert.”

  Maya raised an eyebrow. “Miller will love that.”

  "Miles insists."

  The lights dimmed. The conductor stepped onto the stage, followed by Miles. Applause filled the hall, a thunderous wave of sound. He looked magnificent in his tuxedo, the embodiment of composure, except for the tension in his shoulders. His eyes flicked toward our seats, searching, and I gave him a small, reassuring nod.

  Then, silence. Anticipation thickened in the air. The conductor raised his baton, and the music began.

  Our music.

  But under Miles’s direction, in the hands of the orchestra, it became something more, something alive. The first movement unfolded with a slow, deliberate tension, rising into a triumphant second movement that soared. The third, darker and more intricate, wove a tapestry of longing and struggle, leading into a finale that held everything: doubt, hope, passion, love. A raw, unfiltered expression of us.

  The audience sat spellbound, held captive by the music’s intensity. Then, as the final note faded, a moment of breathless silence, before the hall erupted in thunderous applause.

  A standing ovation. Shouts of “Bravo!” echoed through the concert hall. Miles took bow after bow, his face flushed with the afterglow of performance. He gestured to the orchestra, to the concertmaster, to the conductor, acknowledging them all. But then his eyes found mine.

  And for just a second, something flickered there. Something I couldn’t name.

  Backstage was chaos, a whirlwind of well-wishers, critics, and photographers, their voices blending into a cacophony of praise. Miles spotted me and, without a word, pulled me into a quiet hallway. The sudden silence was deafening.

  "They loved it," I said.

  His expression was unreadable. "We need to talk."

  A knot formed in my stomach. “Now? What about the reception?” That was when we planned to reveal the co-writing.

  His gaze flickered. “Can you come to my place later? I need to make an appearance. Miller insists.” He squeezed my hand. “An hour. Please.”

  I nodded, watching as he turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

  Maya appeared beside me. “What’s wrong? You look pale.”

  I forced a smile. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  Miles’s apartment was dim, lit only by a single lamp that cast long, restless shadows across the walls. He poured two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid glowing softly in the low light, and handed me one. His hand trembled slightly.

  “The critics are calling it my finest work,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless.

  “That’s good, right?”

  He took a long drink. “It’s not my work.”

  “Miles…”

  “Let me finish.” He set down his glass with a sharp clink. “It’s brilliant, Stella. Far better than anything I could have written right now. And that’s the problem.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His troubled blue eyes met mine, raw and unguarded. “It’s too good. It sounds like me, but it isn’t me. It’s you. Your soul, your heart.” He shook his head, resignation etched into every movement. “I felt like a fraud up there. And Miller says we can’t reveal it was co-written. Not yet. He thinks it’ll damage my reputation, make people question all my past work.”

  A slow dread crept over me. “And what do you think?”

  He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, torn between guilt and obligation. “I think I love you. I think I’m sorry. And I think…I don’t know what the right answer is.” He hesitated. “Miller made some valid points about my contract. If people find out, they might not trust me to produce new work on my own.”

  My stomach twisted. “I was just trying to help.”

  “I know you were.” He took my hands, his grip warm, steady. “But do you realize what this means? My next composition, real work, will be measured against this. How do I even begin to match it?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice thick with emotion. “What you did was the most selfless thing anyone’s ever done for me. And I’m grateful. But I’m also terrified.”

  "Of what?"

  “That I’ll never write anything as good as what you wrote. That I’m finished as a composer.” He pulled me close, his arms both a comfort and a plea. “And that you’ll resent me for taking credit for your masterpiece.”

  I put my head on his shoulder. "I could never resent you."

  “You should.” His voice was rough. “This could launch your career, not prop up mine.”

  Silence stretched between us, the only sound the soft patter of rain against the window.

  "What do we do now?" I finally asked.

  He pressed a kiss to my forehead, a silent promise. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, we do it together.”

  The weeks after the concert were a whirlwind, a dizzying dance of interviews, glowing reviews, and a flood of commission offers. The music had taken on a life of its own, and so had Miles’ career.

  Days blurred into nights as I watched him navigate the sudden surge of success, the city lights a constant backdrop to our moments together. At industry events, his hand always found mine in the crowd, a silent reassurance amidst the clamor. He kept me close, introducing me as his partner. But never once did he acknowledge my contribution to the piece.

  I had agreed it was best not to take credit. That had been my intention from the start, a selfless act born of love. And yet, the day he offered to share the credit had planted something within me, an expectation I hadn’t meant to nurture; a quiet, fragile hope had begun to take root.

  Now, the silence in my small apartment pressed in around me, a stark reminder. I had dreams for my music too, but they felt as if they were slipping away, fading like a distant melody. Was this what it meant to let them go? The applause, meant for him, still rang in my ears, a bittersweet echo of what could have been. A phantom symphony.

  A flicker of sadness sparked within me, quick to be buried.

  I wanted to be happy for him. And I was. But…

  A month after the concert, I found him at the piano, playing something unfamiliar.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Something new.” He smiled, the first genuine smile I’d seen in weeks, a light returning to his eyes. “It came to me this morning.”

  I sat beside him. "Play it for me?"

  He did. A simple, haunting melody that gradually wove itself into something rich and intricate, a testament to his rekindled creativity. It wasn’t like our collaboration, a fusion of our souls. This was purely him, with all his distinctive touches. A voice reborn.

  "Miles, that's incredible."

  He nodded, his expression filled with quiet satisfaction. “I think…I think I’m finding my way back.”

  In the weeks that followed, he wrote feverishly, as if a dam had broken inside him. The music poured from him, unrestrained. I watched him transform, the dark circles beneath his eyes fading, his movements regaining energy, his laughter returning, light and unburdened.

  He was healing, one note at a time. Finding his way back to himself.

  Two months after the concert, he announced a small, intimate performance. A piano quintet, he said, something new, a rebirth.

  "Are you ready for this?" I asked the night before, my voice quiet with anticipation.

  "Yes." He pulled me close. "Because of you."

  "I didn't write this one."

  "No, but you gave me back my confidence. My voice." He kissed me, a soft, lingering promise. "And now, I’m going to return the favor."

  Three months after the concert that changed everything, I stood in the wings, the scent of rosin and anticipation filling the air, watching Miles on stage. The audience applauded as he took his seat at the piano, a wave of warmth washing over me. He nodded to Sarah, the first violinist, and they began to play.

  This was his composition, truly his, a piano quintet he had written over the past several weeks, a testament to his renewed creative spirit. It was different from our piece, more introspective, but undeniably beautiful, a reflection of his inner journey. As I watched his face while he played, a lump formed in my throat. The emotions swirled inside me, pride, relief, joy so sharp it ached.

  After the performance, Miles found me backstage. His fingers brushed my wrist before taking my hand, a silent touch that said more than words.

  "What did you think?" he asked.

  "It was perfect," I said sincerely. "Completely you."

  He smiled, and there was something knowing in his expression, something expectant. “I have something for you.” He handed me an envelope, his touch gentle.

  I unfolded it, my pulse quickening. A contract. Meridian Records.

  "What’s this?" My voice was barely above a whisper.

  "They want to hear your work. Your real work, under your name." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I might have sent them that string quartet you were working on when we met."

  My breath caught.

  "Miles, you didn’t have to…"

  "Yes, I did.” He took both my hands, his grip steady, unwavering. “You saved me, Stella. Now it’s your turn.”

  I stared at the contract, my fingers tightening around the paper. My name. My music. A door I had never dared to knock on, suddenly flung open.

  I looked up at him, emotions colliding inside me, too big for words.

  "There’s something else." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

  My heart stopped.

  "Miles…"

  "I’m not asking yet," he said quickly. "But I want you to have this. A promise."

  He opened the box. Inside was a delicate silver ring with a small emerald, its green depths shimmering in the backstage light.

  "It was my grandmother’s," he said softly. "The woman who first taught me to play."

  With trembling fingers, I took the ring, running my thumb over its cool surface. "It’s beautiful."

  "Like you." He took the ring and slipped it onto my right hand. "Someday, when we're both ready, I'll ask the question. And when I do, I'll have a different ring. But for now, this is my promise to you. That whatever comes next, we face it together. Our careers, our music, our lives."

  Tears blurred my vision.

  "Together?"

  "Always," he answered.

  He kissed me, a kiss that sealed a promise, as the world around us faded away.

  In that moment, surrounded by the echoes of his music, I knew we’d be okay.

  Our love story, like any great composition, had its dissonance and resolution, its quiet moments and crescendos.

  And this time, I would play my own notes, too.

  The End