The almost-laugh we shared pulled some of the tension out of the room. But as Theo turned to head over to the armchair, I kept watching his small movements, his measured calm, and thought how strange it was to feel seen and yet be invisible at the same time.
Theo looked up, caught my gaze, and for a second neither of us moved. Then he glanced at my sketchbook. “Have you been working on something?”
Before I could stop him, Theo flicked the book open—and froze.
Theo
I gazed at the page.
It was me.
Not a portrait, not exactly, more the shape of me, the rhythm of movement. My hands raised in direction, the curve of my spine caught mid-gesture, shadows and lines that somehow sounded like music. The sketch vibrated with life, all precision and chaos at once.
I stared. “You drew this tonight?”
“After rehearsal.” Cameron finally met my gaze. “You looked different up there. Alive.”
I couldn’t find my voice. The drawing wasn’t flattering or romantic. It was true. Every line felt like being seen way too closely.
Cameron tilted his head. “Do you mind?”
“No.” My pulse told a different story. “It’s good.”
He chuckled. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I looked away, pretending to study the lamplight instead. The air felt thick, and even the quiet between us seemed to hum. I noticed things I shouldn’t, how calm Cameron’s breathing was, the small rise and fall of his chest, the warmth radiating fromhim. I wanted to say something ordinary—Goodnight, orNice work—but the words caught in my throat.
Why does it feel as if everything ordinary has stopped fitting between us?
Cameron shifted from one foot to the other. “You’re staring again.”
I forced a faint smile. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
“Of what? Conducting or denial?”
“That’s enough.” I aimed for sternness, but the words came out gentler than I’d intended.
Cameron sighed. “You make it very hard to behave.”
My heartbeat stumbled. “I’m going to work for a while.” I picked up the laptop.
“Yeah, me too,” Cameron said, his voice almost a whisper. “Goodnight, Theo.”
I nodded without turning back. “Goodnight.”
I left the room before my resolve could fracture, before I could do something stupid like stay another minute in that charged stillness.
But when I reached my doorway, I caught myself glancing back at the glow of the lamp on Cameron’s bent head, the slow movement of pencil over paper.
I told myself it was nothing, merely observation.
I put the mug on the bedside table, then closed the door and sat on my bed. I opened my laptop, not to work as I’d told Cameron, but to find an old folder I should have deleted years ago. I clicked through the neatness I’d built around myself—clients, arrangements, rehearsal notes—until I saw it.
/archive/LK/
The letters made my shoulders climb toward my ears. I exhaled and opened the folder.
There was a recording namedTrust_rough-mix.wav. I didn’t play it. I didn’t need to. I could hear it anyway, still hear Luka as he sang it that first time.