The club was louder than the street outside, and yet, something about it felt quiet to Amira.
It was her second night at Velvet Echo, and she was no longer the unknown girl with a suitcase and broken mascara trails on her cheeks. Tonight, she was the voice that made the bartender pause mid-pour, the singer who made even the late-night drunks lean in with their phones forgotten.
Her name wasn't on the marquee yet, but it didn't need to be.
She was the storm everyone felt before it had a name.
Amira stood backstage in her little black dress — the one her sister left behind two years ago that she'd never dared to wear. The satin hugged her like it belonged. Her white, waist-length hair had been straightened into a glossy curtain that shimmered under the side light. Her lips were stained with dark wine-red gloss. No more smudged eyeliner or nervous glances.
Only purpose.
Only power.
She glanced at herself in the backstage mirror, taking in the soft but fierce woman who stared back at her. She didn't know this version of herself, not fully. But she liked her.
She inhaled, held it in her lungs like a secret, and then exhaled as her name was called.
"Give it up again for the velvet voice herself… Amira!"
The lights dimmed, the spotlight landed on the center of the small but elegant stage, and the room fell into hush.
She walked toward the mic.
The band behind her — real professionals with years of shows and scars under their belts — gave her a respectful nod. They knew she had something. She had earned it.
The pianist touched the opening chords of her set, and her voice, smoky and honey-smooth, cut through the room.
She sang about quiet heartbreak — not the kind that screams or shatters glass, but the kind that sits quietly with you while you stare at your phone for one last text that never comes. She sang the ache of being left, not loud but lingering.
And they listened.
They always listened.
Somewhere in the room, she felt his eyes on her — Luca's.
He wasn't like the other performers at Velvet Echo. He was a staple there — someone they called the "night's rhythm." He didn't just sing; he told stories through melodies, wrapped pain in lyrics, and made women sigh in keys.
And for some reason, lately, those lyrics had begun to feel aimed at her.
When her set ended, Amira bowed, her heartbeat racing like it always did after performing, and then she disappeared backstage. She didn't want to bask. Not tonight. She wanted solitude.
But of course, that was when she heard his voice.
"Hey, Moonlight."
She turned.
Luca.
He was leaning casually against the doorframe, a lazy smile on his lips, his guitar case slung over one shoulder. His curls were damp, like he'd just showered, and his gray eyes had a habit of seeing too much.
"You always sneak off after making the whole room fall in love with you?" he asked, stepping closer.
Amira smirked faintly, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. "It's not love. It's curiosity. Curiosity fades."
He raised a brow. "You sure? Sounded like heartbreak to me."
She looked down at her heels, her smile faltering.
"Just a song," she murmured.
"Right," Luca said gently, "and tears are just water."
Amira hated how his words got to her. Luca always managed to crack something open inside her without force, like he simply saw the hidden seams of her soul and touched them carefully.
She walked past him to grab her coat from the rack. "It's late."
"I was going to grab a bite at Louie's across the street. They've got the best midnight pancakes. Want to come?"
She hesitated.
She hadn't eaten properly all day. And the idea of sitting across from someone who looked at her like she was still whole — not shattered, not abandoned — was tempting.
Too tempting.
"I shouldn't," she said. "I have an early morning."
"Liar."
She smiled reluctantly.
Luca grinned. "Just one pancake. I'll even let you steal the last strawberry."
Amira sighed and nodded. "Fine. But I'm not sharing syrup."
"Deal."
—
Louie's was warm, neon-lit, and nearly empty — the kind of place that smelled like cinnamon grease and memories.
They sat in a booth by the window, her luggage now stashed at her sister's flat, and ordered pancakes with extra butter and double the syrup.
"I didn't know you could sing like that," Luca said between bites. "Like, I knew. But I didn't know."
Amira took a small bite and shrugged. "I didn't either. Until I had to."
Luca tilted his head. "Did something happen?"
Amira looked out the window. London was quiet this late. Even the red buses moved like whispers.
"Yeah," she said finally. "He stopped replying. So I flew across an ocean to surprise him."
Luca froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
"He broke up with me in a bar," she added with a bitter smile. "Didn't even wait until we were alone."
Silence sat between them, soft but tense.
"I'm sorry," Luca said, voice low.
She nodded once. "So I sang. Because if I didn't, I might have broken apart."
He stared at her like she was a song he was still learning. "You didn't just sing. You told your pain to sit down and listen."
Amira looked at him, really looked at him. "Why do you always say things like that?"
"Because I mean them."
Her throat tightened.
Before she could speak again, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it but didn't pick up.
She caught the name before it faded: Sofia.
"Girlfriend?" she asked, half-teasing.
Luca smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Used to be."
Used to be. Just like her.
They had more in common than she thought.
"Looks like we're both trying to unlove someone," she said quietly.
Luca leaned in, elbows on the table. "Then maybe we could start by learning something new... like pancakes at 1 a.m."
Amira laughed softly.
And for the first time since she'd landed in London, it didn't hurt.
The walk back to her sister's flat was soft-footed and quiet, the kind of silence that doesn't demand to be filled. Luca walked beside her, their steps falling in rhythm on the wet pavement, puddles reflecting streetlights like shattered moons.
They didn't talk much after leaving Louie's. They didn't need to.
It was strange how healing didn't always sound like laughter or advice — sometimes, it was just walking beside someone who didn't ask for explanations.
When they reached the corner of her street, she stopped.
"This is me," she said.
Luca nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets, his guitar case swinging slightly behind him. "You good?"
Amira offered a small nod. "Better."
"You sure?"
She gave him a faint smile. "No. But that's okay."
He smiled back — one of those slow, genuine ones that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Alright. See you at rehearsal tomorrow?"
She hesitated. "Yeah. Definitely."
"Night, Moonlight."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't help the grin. "Goodnight, Luca."
He didn't try to kiss her. Didn't touch her. Just turned and walked off into the London fog.
And somehow, that was the most comforting thing of all.
—
Back inside her sister's flat, Amira peeled off her heels and dropped onto the pullout bed with a sigh. Her phone buzzed — not with texts from Noah, of course, but from friends back in New York asking where she'd disappeared to.
She ignored them all.
Instead, she opened her notes app, where song titles sat like unfinished thoughts.
One, at the bottom, caught her eye.
"If You Loved Me Like You Said"
She tapped it.
She didn't write the whole song. Just a verse. Just enough to remind her of the bruise beneath her ribs.
> You kissed me like a promise /
Then left like a thief in daylight /
Said love was forever /
But your forever came with flight.
She saved it. Closed her eyes. Tried to sleep.
But the city outside kept breathing.
So she did, too.
—
The next day, rehearsal was loud and chaotic.
Velvet Echo was prepping for their upcoming showcase — a private event for some elite label scouts and producers. The owner, a high-strung French woman named Claudine, paced the floor like a conductor with too many instruments out of tune.
Amira was scheduled to perform two songs.
Luca three.
Their duet — originally an improvisation — had made its way onto the lineup. Apparently, their chemistry on stage was "electric" and "mesmerizing," according to Claudine, who waved her arms like a woman possessed when she said it.
Amira wasn't sure what scared her more: performing for real scouts… or singing that close to Luca again.
Because last night changed something.
He wasn't just a friendly fellow singer anymore.
He was... beginning to matter.
"Alright!" Claudine snapped, clapping twice. "From the top. Luca, Amira, into position, please."
They moved to center stage, facing each other. The band behind them started the opening chords.
Luca gave her a look — a silent, Are you ready?
She nodded.
And then their voices met in the middle, weaving through chords like smoke and silk.
Their song was about bittersweet timing — lovers who met too late, or maybe too early. Each lyric was laced with longing and the ache of unspoken things. By the time they hit the final harmony, the room was still.
Even Claudine was stunned into silence.
"That," she finally whispered, "is it. That is the sound."
Amira's chest rose and fell fast. Not from nerves. From everything else.
Luca looked at her like she was the lyric he never finished writing.
And just as she was about to speak—
Her phone buzzed.
It vibrated against the stool near the mic. Everyone turned to look.
She picked it up. Her eyes scanned the screen.
Her blood froze.
It was a text.
From Noah.
> "I'm in London. Can we talk?"
—
Luca noticed the color drain from her face.
He stepped closer. "Hey. You okay?"
She lowered the phone like it weighed ten pounds.
"He's here," she said flatly.
Luca didn't need to ask who.
Amira backed away slowly, chest tightening. "I... I have to go."
She grabbed her jacket and rushed off stage. The room echoed with Claudine's yelling, but she didn't stop.
Not until she was outside.
Not until she was on the sidewalk, gasping for breath like the air had turned solid.
Her phone buzzed again.
> "At the café near Hyde Park. Just me. No pressure."
She should've ignored it.
She should've blocked him again and walked the other direction.
But her legs moved without her permission.
Some part of her still wanted an explanation. A reason. Even if it shattered whatever pieces she had left.
—
She found the café easily. A quiet, stone-walled place tucked between a bookstore and a florist. Noah sat at a window booth in a crisp black coat, looking out like he'd been waiting hours.
His hair was shorter.
His smile... still dangerous.
When he saw her, he stood up fast.
"Amira," he breathed. "God, you look—"
"Don't," she cut in.
He sat.
She remained standing, arms crossed tightly. "What do you want?"
"I—I made a mistake," he began, eyes wide with urgency. "I panicked. Everything with school, my parents pressuring me about law firms, and then you showing up... I didn't handle it right."
She let out a sharp laugh. "You ghosted me for weeks. I thought you were dead."
"I was scared."
"You humiliated me, Noah. In front of your friends. Your new life."
He looked down, guilt shadowing his face.
"I was stupid," he admitted. "And selfish. But seeing you now, singing... being everything I always knew you were — I can't stop thinking about you."
She stayed silent.
"I want to fix this," he said softly. "I want us."
Her heart twisted.
And not in the way it used to.
It twisted because those words no longer belonged to her dream. Because they sounded like a memory trying too hard to rewrite itself.
"Noah," she said carefully, "I'm not yours to want anymore."
He blinked. "You're seeing someone?"
She didn't answer.
Because it wasn't about Luca.
It was about herself.
"I don't know who I'm becoming," she whispered. "But she doesn't want to be where you left her."
She turned before she could change her mind.
Noah didn't follow.
And that silence — that blessed, final silence — was the only apology she would accept.