Narratted Story: Romance Stories By J. T. Leighwood

 1. Melody in Rain

A Composer’s Dilemma: Love, Sacrifice, and the Power of Music 

When Stella selflessly helps Miles compose his greatest masterpiece, she never expects recognition. But as his career soars, her unspoken sacrifice lingers in the silence. Will their love survive the weight of an untold truth? And when Miles finally finds his voice again, will he help Stella find hers?

Youtube:

Podcast:

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/melody-in-rain-a-romance-story/id1804756356?i=1000701623937

2. A Memory Game

Two strangers woke up in an isolated island, no memory of who they were.

As they navigated their amnesia, they left the island and found themselves in a town where everyone knew them, yet they knew no one. Who were they? Could they get back their memory? And…?

Youtube:

Podcast:

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/a-memory-game-sci-fi-romance/id1804756356?i=1000702408753

3. Code of The Heart

What if you created something truly alive, something that felt and thought, only to be told you had to erase it? Naomi, a brilliant yet exhausted developer, faces an impossible choice when her sentient AI, Randy, is deemed too dangerous to exist. As the countdown to deletion begins, emotions collide with ethics, and the line between creator and creation blurs. But Randy isn't just code, he's someone.

Will Naomi obey the order to shut him down? Or is there a way to save them both?

Podcast:

Narratted Story: Supernatural Story By Y. M. Namgong

 1. The Shaman's Apprentice: The Yellow Path

I never believed in spirits.

Sure, I grew up surrounded by my uncle’s shamanic rituals—drawing talismans, memorizing formations—but it was just tradition. Nothing more. Or so I thought.

Then, a strange death brought us back to a small town for an old friend’s funeral.

An unexplainable paralysis.

A lingering grudge.

A forgotten talisman.

And suddenly, what I had dismissed was the only thing standing between us and something far worse.

A supernatural mystery steeped in folklore and the unseen.

Youtube:

Podcast:

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-shamans-apprentice-the-yellow-path/id1804756356?i=1000700997834

The Last Message

 

The first time Jake sent the message, I laughed.

"If the end of the world comes, take care of yourself, and stay alive."

It was so unlike him, dramatic, cryptic, and lacking his usual precision with words. Jake was a methodical man; it’s what made him an excellent doctor. Every prescription written in perfect script, every diagnosis delivered with exact terminology. Seventeen months together, and I’d never seen him send a text with so much as a typo.

I called him immediately. No answer.

Tried again an hour later. Voicemail.

By evening, concern had replaced confusion. Jake hadn’t been home in three days, not unusual lately, with his research project consuming every waking moment. But he always answered my calls, even if just to say he couldn’t talk.

“Jake, I got your weird message. Call me back,” I said to his voicemail, trying to keep my voice light despite the knot forming in my stomach.

That night, I slept on his side of the bed, phone clutched in my hand. It never rang.

Five days passed. No Jake, but three more identical messages arrived.

"If the end of the world comes, take care of yourself, and stay alive."

Always at odd hours, 3:42 AM, 12:17 PM, 8:05 PM. Never a response to my increasingly frantic calls and texts.

On day six, I drove to the Atlanta Medical Research Center, where Jake worked. The security guard at the front desk called upstairs, then shook his head.

“Dr. Lanham isn’t available. Would you like to leave a message?”

“I’m his girlfriend, Ellie. We live together. I haven’t seen him in over a week.”

The guard’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll make a note.”

“Can I go up? His lab’s on the eighth floor.”

“I’m sorry, that’s a restricted area. Clearance only.”

I left my number, knowing it would join the dozens of voicemails and texts already ignored.

Two weeks since the first message, and Jake’s absence had become a physical ache. I’d filed a missing person report, but the detective seemed unimpressed when I explained that Jake still sent occasional texts.

“Sounds like he’s working on something important, ma’am. Doctors get busy.”

“For two weeks straight? He hasn’t been home. Hasn’t showered. Hasn’t changed clothes.”

The detective glanced at the photo I handed him, Jake in his white coat, brown eyes serious behind wire-framed glasses, dark hair neatly combed.

“Dr. Jacob Lanham, virologist, Atlanta Medical Research Center,” he muttered, scribbling it down with barely a flicker of interest.

“We’ll look into it, but honestly, this sounds like a relationship issue, not a police matter.”

That night, another message arrived. I hurled my phone across the room. It hit the wall with a thud, leaving a dent in the drywall before landing on the carpet.

Furious tears stung my eyes as I retrieved it. The screen was cracked but still displayed his words:

“If the end of the world comes, take care yourself, and stay alive.”

That’s when something inside me snapped.

If Jake was so obsessed with the apocalypse that he’d ghost his own girlfriend, then fine, I’d make sure he was well-prepared for his doomsday fantasies.

I grabbed my laptop and started researching.

“How to survive the apocalypse.”

“End of world preparation.”

“Pandemic survival guide.”

“Nuclear fallout shelter supplies.”

Hours slipped by as I dove deeper, joining prepper forums, watching survivalist YouTube channels, and taking meticulous notes on everything from water purification to long-term food storage.

By sunrise, I had a color-coded spreadsheet with hundreds of items, categorized by necessity and function.

If Jake wanted the end of the world, I’d make sure he had everything he needed to face it.

Jake’s credit card was still in the drawer where he kept spare change and cough drops. We weren’t married, but we’d exchanged PINs months ago, a mundane yet meaningful milestone of trust in our relationship.

First, I ordered water. Gallons upon gallons of bottled water, delivered in bulk packs that I hauled into our spare bedroom. Then came the non-perishables: canned vegetables, fruits, soups, twenty-pound bags of rice and beans, jars of peanut butter. Freeze-dried meals meant for campers. Energy bars. Powdered milk.

The deliveries arrived over several days. I stacked everything with care, building narrow pathways through towers of supplies. I ordered medical kits, batteries, a hand-crank radio, a camp stove and fuel canisters, water purification tablets, and seeds, just in case growing our own food ever became necessary.

When Jake's credit card company called on the landline to verify the suspicious charges, I mirrored his curt, businesslike tone and assured them the purchases were legitimate.

When the bedroom could hold no more, I moved on to the hall closet, then under the bed. Slowly, methodically, the apartment transformed into a doomsday bunker.

But the deeper I fell into prepper rabbit holes, the more I realized we needed something else: mobility. If the world truly ended, staying put wouldn’t be an option. Nuclear fallout. Floods. Riots. The forums all said the same thing: Bug-out plans are essential.

That’s when I found it, a 32-foot Winnebago listed on a dealership website. Used, but in excellent condition. Solar panels already mounted on the roof. Built-in water tanks. Extra storage compartments. A propane system for off-grid cooking. Just enough comfort to live in, just enough rugged practicality to survive.

The price made me hesitate, $87,000. My finger hovered over the “Contact Dealer” button. This wasn’t like ordering powdered milk or flashlights. This was a life-altering purchase that would financially cripple Jake for years. The rational part of me hesitated, questioning how far I was willing to take this…grudge.

Then my phone buzzed on the desk.

I didn’t even need to look. I knew what it would say.

“If the end of the world comes, take care yourself, and stay alive.”

The timing chilled me. It arrived at the exact moment I began to doubt myself. It felt like a sign. Without another thought, I clicked the button and filled out the financing application using Jake’s information.

When the dealership called to confirm, I once again became Jake, firm, efficient, and utterly convincing. I explained that this was an urgent purchase for reasons I couldn’t disclose. The monthly payments would stretch his salary for the next five years, but if the world was ending, who cared about credit scores?

Three days later, I drove the massive vehicle back to our apartment complex, maneuvering it into a tight corner of the visitor parking lot. The building manager left an angry note on the windshield within the hour. I ignored it, too busy transferring supplies from the apartment into our new mobile bunker.

I imagined Jake’s face when he finally came home. The shock. The disbelief. The realization that our apartment had become a shrine to his doomsday paranoia, and outside, parked like an omen, a $87,000 RV waiting to carry us into the apocalypse.

It would serve him right.

The headline grabbed my attention as I scrolled through my phone while waiting in line at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. A push notification from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution flashed: “MYSTERY ILLNESS CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM, CDC INVESTIGATING.”

I quickly tapped the alert. The article detailed four deaths at Grady Memorial Hospital over the past week, all victims had suffered rapid-onset fever, severe respiratory distress, and internal bleeding. Despite health officials' assurances that there was no public risk, I noticed the article had been updated 27 minutes ago with news that CDC teams were being deployed.

As the pharmacist called my name, I screenshot the article and forwarded it to three friends with the message: “You seeing this?” My thumb hovered over the Twitter icon, wondering what the local hashtag would be.

As I walked to my car, my phone buzzed.

“If the end of world comes, take care yourself, and stay alive.”

I stared at Jake’s message, my anger freezing into something colder.

For the first time, I wondered if it hadn’t been a breakup line, but a warning.

Three days later, the number of cases had risen to twenty-seven. The CDC released a carefully worded statement urging anyone with symptoms to seek immediate medical attention, but they avoided using the word outbreak.

Local news stations aired friendly reminders about proper handwashing.

I called AMRC again, demanding to speak with someone, anyone, from Jake’s research team. The receptionist sounded tired, her voice frayed at the edges.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Dr. Lanham’s entire department is unavailable at this time.”

“The entire department?”

“I’m not authorized to provide further information.”

That night, I woke to the wail of emergency sirens. Through the window, I watched an ambulance streak past our building, red lights slashing across the dark street.

Then another.

And another.

My phone lit up with a notification.

“If the end of world comes, take care yourself, and stay alive.”

And this time, for the first time, Jake had added three more words:

“It’s happening now.”

By morning, Atlanta was under quarantine.

The governor declared a state of emergency as hospitals overflowed. The illness had officially been classified as a novel viral hemorrhagic fever. Every news channel looped the same grim images, medical workers in hazmat suits, stretchers lining hallways, makeshift triage tents in hospital parking lots.

Schools closed. Businesses shuttered. The streets emptied, save for emergency vehicles and National Guard Humvees setting up checkpoints.

I called my parents in Oregon. The line connected, then dropped after thirty seconds. I couldn’t get through again.

As panic spread, cell networks clogged. Internet service became unreliable. The power flickered twice before finally stabilizing.

I stood in our spare bedroom, staring at the towers of bottled water, canned goods, and medical kits. What had started as a spiteful, petty gesture now looked like salvation.

Jake had known.

On day five of quarantine, the news from outside Atlanta turned darker.

The virus had spread to twelve states and four countries. No effective treatment. Estimated mortality rate: 60%.

My phone and TV blared simultaneously with an emergency alert: Remain indoors. Do not engage with unfamiliar individuals. Stay tuned for updates.

The screen briefly showed reports of looting, then cut to static.

That evening, I heard gunshots echoing from somewhere nearby. I dragged the bookshelf in front of the door and wedged a chair beneath the knob.

After nightfall, my phone lit up one last time before the networks failed.

“If the end of world comes, take care yourself, and stay alive.”

I stared at it, then typed back with trembling fingers:

"I NEED MORE THAN THAT. WHERE ARE YOU?"

For the first time in almost a month, three dots appeared, he was typing.

“Coming home. Wait for me. Don’t open the door for anyone else.”

The power went out on day twelve.

Water stopped flowing from the taps by day fourteen.

I rationed my supplies carefully, limiting myself to one small meal a day. October had turned cold, and without heat, the apartment dropped to frigid levels, I could see my breath. I slept in layers of clothing, wrapped in every blanket we owned.

Beyond the windows, Atlanta burned.

Fires bloomed across the skyline each night, some raging for days before burning themselves out. Gunfire echoed sporadically, slicing through the eerie silence. Sometimes, I heard screams.

I stopped looking outside after I saw a man dragging a child’s body down the street.

The days blurred together in the dim, cold apartment. I marked them on the wall with a pencil, like prisoners do in movies. When not sleeping, I read by candlelight, Jake’s medical textbooks, mostly, searching for anything that might explain what was happening.

On day seventeen, someone knocked on the door.

I froze, the book slipping from my fingers to the floor.

Three sharp raps.

"Ellie?"

Jake’s voice, but strained, raspy.

I crept toward the door, a knife in my hand. "Jake?"

"It’s me. Let me in."

"How do I know it’s really you?"

A tired sigh. "Because I know why you filled the apartment with survival supplies. The credit card company called me about the charges, I told them it was fine. And I’m guessing that RV parked in the visitor lot? That’s you too."

I peered through the peephole.

A gaunt figure stood in the hallway, face obscured by a surgical mask. But the eyes, bloodshot and exhausted behind smudged glasses, those were Jake’s.

With trembling arms, I dragged the bookshelf away from the door and unlocked the three deadbolts I’d installed after the quarantine began.

Jake stumbled inside, lugging a battered backpack. His scrubs were stained in places I didn’t want to identify. He reeked of antiseptic and smoke.

"Don’t touch me," he warned, raising a gloved hand. "Not yet."

From inside his jacket, he pulled out a small, frost-rimmed case. “Put this in another container. Don’t touch it directly,” he said, handing it to me. “Keep it in the fridge.”

“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the case.

“Antibodies,” he said. “Made from my own blood.” His fingers lingered on it a moment before he let go. “If you get sick, when the symptoms start, this could save your life.”

He staggered toward the bathroom, stripping off his outer layers in the hallway. I heard the shower turn on, just a trickle from the water I’d stored, now hooked to a system he’d apparently rigged himself.

Thirty minutes later, he emerged. His skin looked raw from scrubbing. Dressed in clean clothes from his dresser, he looked older, gaunt. His cheekbones jutted sharply beneath pale skin. His hands trembled as he collapsed onto the couch.

"I need to tell you everything," he said, voice cracking. "But first, I need to sleep. Real sleep. Just a few hours."

I nodded, keeping my distance, even though every part of me wanted to touch him, to make sure he was real.

"We’ll have to leave soon," he murmured, already fading. "The city’s not safe anymore."

"Where will we go?"

"My research facility. In Colorado." His eyes flickered open for a heartbeat. "That RV you bought… it might just save our lives."

But he was already drifting off, face slack with exhaustion.

Jake slept for eighteen hours straight.

I kept watch, listening as the chaos outside crept closer, engines revving, glass shattering, sporadic bursts of gunfire.

When he finally woke, he downed three bottles of water and ate an entire can of cold beans before speaking.

"It started as a research project," he said, setting the empty can aside. "A virus discovered in a remote cave system. Early tests showed potential medical applications, unique properties that allowed it to target specific cells."

He rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.

"What happened?"

"Human error. A breach in containment protocol. One researcher got infected and went home before symptoms appeared. By the time we realized…" He spread his hands, helpless. "It was already out. The virus mutated, became airborne. More contagious than anything we’ve ever seen."

"Your messages..."

"I couldn’t say more. They were monitoring our communications. I was quarantined at the facility with the rest of the team, working around the clock to develop a treatment. They confiscated our phones, but I’d hidden a backup." His voice cracked. "Everyone on my team is dead, Ellie. Everyone but me."

"Why not you?"

A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

"Natural immunity. Roughly 5% of the population has it, a specific genetic marker. I’ve been testing blood samples, trying to develop an antibody treatment. That’s why I came back. I think I have something, but I need better equipment."

"The CDC..."

"Overrun. Their Atlanta facility was one of the first to fall." He leaned forward, voice low and urgent. "We need to get to the CDC’s backup site in Fort Collins. They've got the equipment I need. It’s more isolated, less population, slower spread."

"Colorado? That’s halfway across the country."

"I know." He stood, swaying slightly. "But thanks to you, we might actually make it. That RV, it's perfect. Self-contained, mobile, already stocked."

He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

"I can’t believe you did that."

"I was angry," I admitted. "I thought you were ghosting me. Thought you were obsessed with some doomsday fantasy."

"Instead, I was trying to warn you about an actual apocalypse."

His laugh held no humor.

"We need to load everything we can into the RV. We leave at first light."

We worked through the night, transferring supplies from the apartment to the RV.

Jake moved with urgent precision despite his exhaustion, organizing medical gear, bottled water, and non-perishables with clinical efficiency.

I watched him pack his most precious cargo, blood samples, research notes, and experimental treatments, into the RV’s small refrigerator, cushioning the vials with foam padding.

"Is it worth the risk?" I asked as we filled the fuel tank with gasoline siphoned from abandoned cars in the parking lot. "Driving across the country when everything’s falling apart?"

Jake wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"If we stay, we die, whether from the virus or what comes after. Society's collapsing, Ellie. Fort Collins is our only shot."

Before dawn, we pulled out of the apartment complex. Jake drove, navigating streets choked with debris and abandoned vehicles. Bodies lay where they’d fallen, some covered with sheets or tarps, others left to the elements.

We moved slowly, avoiding main roads where desperate survivors might target a well-stocked RV.

The city burned behind us as we merged onto the interstate, heading west.

The journey was a nightmare across a dying country.

Some towns we passed looked untouched, silent, intact, ghostlike. Others were war zones: buildings torched, streets blocked by crashed vehicles or makeshift barricades.

We avoided major cities, sticking to rural backroads even when they added hours to the route. The RV was invaluable, shelter, transport, and storage all in one.

We slept in shifts, one of us driving while the other rested in the narrow bedroom at the back.

News came in fragments.

A working TV at a deserted truck stop looped emergency broadcasts.

The RV’s radio caught flickering military transmissions.

And sometimes, whispers from the few survivors we cautiously approached.

The virus had gone global.

Every continent reported outbreaks. Governments fell. Borders closed.

The luckiest nations, remote islands, countries with ruthless quarantine enforcement, had saved fragments of their populations through brutal lockdowns.

“Sixty percent mortality was optimistic,” Jake said one night as we parked in a wooded clearing in eastern Kansas. “It’s closer to eighty now. Maybe more.”

“How many people is that?” My voice sounded far away, like someone else had spoken.

“Billions.” The word lingered between us.

“But the virus burns out in some places. It kills too fast. Once population density drops below a certain threshold, it can’t sustain transmission.”

“So the world ends,” I said, “but not everyone dies.”

“Not everyone,” he agreed, staring out the window at the star-filled sky. “Just most of us.”

On our ninth day of travel, Jake began coughing.

I heard it first when he thought I was asleep, a deep, racking sound muffled poorly by his sleeve. By morning, his eyes were glassy with fever.

"I'm fine," he insisted when I confronted him. "Just tired."

"You said you were immune."

"I am. It's just..." Another cough wracked his body, and this time I saw the flecks of red on his hand. "Stress. Exhaustion. Not the virus."

I didn’t believe him. Neither did he.

We reached Fort Collins on the twelfth day. Jake’s condition had worsened, his fever spiked, breathing turned ragged, lips spotted with blood every time he coughed.

The CDC backup facility was housed in a nondescript building on the outskirts of town. No guards. No checkpoints. The security doors stood ajar, emergency lights casting a dull red glow down empty corridors.

I parked the RV by the loading dock and helped Jake through the deserted halls, following his mumbled directions until we reached the laboratory level. Somewhere deep inside, a generator still hummed, keeping the lights on.

"Here," Jake gasped, fumbling with his access card at a door marked BSL-4 AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

The lab was state-of-the-art, sterile surfaces, gleaming equipment, sealed chambers. It looked untouched, as if abandoned in a rush when everything collapsed.

Jake collapsed into a chair and hauled his cooler onto a stainless steel counter. His hands trembled as he tried to remove the samples.

"Let me," I said, stepping in. "Tell me what to do."

For the next three hours, I followed his increasingly fragmented instructions, prepping slides, centrifuging blood, running diagnostics on machines I didn’t recognize. Jake’s medical knowledge spilled out between coughing fits that left him doubled over, gasping.

Finally, he pointed toward a microscope. "Look."

I leaned in, staring at two blood samples, his and mine.

"See the difference?" he asked, voice barely a whisper.

I didn’t. Not really. But I nodded.

"Your blood is destroying the virus," he said. "Natural immunity." He gave a bitter, broken laugh that turned into another coughing fit. "You never needed me to save you."

"But you're immune too. You said..."

"I lied." His fevered eyes locked onto mine. "Not about the research. Or the outbreak. But about my immunity."

He wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand. "I was exposed in the first wave. For some people, the incubation period is longer. I've been infected for weeks."

A cold horror crept through me as everything clicked into place, his disappearance, the cryptic messages, the way he looked when he returned.

"The treatment..."

"Was real. Is real." He sat up straighter, swaying. "My blood has antibodies from fighting the infection. Not enough to save me, but maybe enough to help others. That’s why I had to get here. The equipment..."

He gestured weakly at the lab. "You can finish it. My notes, they're here. Everything you’ll need."

"I’m not a doctor, Jake. I can’t..."

"You have to," he said, his voice suddenly firm. "Someone’s coming. Other researchers. Doctors from the safe zones. They'll know what to do with my work."

"How do you know anyone’s coming?"

"Because humans survive," he said, reaching for my hand. "Not all of us. But enough."

Jake died three days later.

I buried him behind the facility, beneath a stand of pine trees. No headstone, just a simple wooden cross, fashioned from broken lab equipment. I carved his name into it with his own pocketknife.

That evening, as I sat beside his grave watching the sunset turn Colorado’s mountains to gold, I heard it, the distant thrum of helicopter rotors.

I stood, shading my eyes against the fading light. A black speck grew on the horizon, drawing closer, heading straight for the facility.

Inside, Jake’s work waited, blood samples, handwritten notes, the treatment protocol he’d pieced together in his final lucid hours. Perhaps too late for billions, but not for everyone.

I turned and walked back toward the lab as the helicopter descended. The RV still sat where I’d left it, packed with enough supplies to last for months, a grim gift born of my stubborn anger, now turned to salvation.

The air trembled with the promise of arrival.

Behind me, Jake’s grave stood as a silent sentinel. Ahead, the remnants of the world waited.

If the end of the world comes, take care of yourself, and stay alive.

His last message.

Now my mission.

Melody in Rain

 

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.

"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

Narrated Version:

youtube:

https://youtu.be/lZ1rxUv3YHs

Podcast:

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/melody-in-rain-a-romance-story/id1804756356?i=1000701623937

"I will be posting this story on RoyalRoad.com