Sebastian POV:
I hadn't planned on being here.
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I tried to ignore the flyers Sam and Abigail plastered across town — the saloon door, the bulletin board near the bus stop, even Pierre's window. They were everywhere, a constant reminder that I'd written something too raw to share... and they were determined to drag it into the light.
Even when I said yes, I told myself I'd bail last minute. But somehow, here I was — on stage, fingers resting over my synth keys, lights hot on my skin, heart threatening to crack my ribs from the inside. Sam stood beside me tuning his guitar like we weren't about to unleash a song that came straight out of my lowest moments.
The club was packed. Low ceilings, neon lights flickering, the air thick with sweat, beer, and old speakers humming with anticipation. A few hecklers shouted requests from the back, but none of it registered.
All I could hear was my heartbeat.
"This is a new one," Sam said into the mic, glancing at me. "It's called A Heart Worth Breaking."
And that was it.
My words. My insides turned out and stitched into melody.
We started slow. Just the keyboard — soft, eerie notes, like a ghost whispering through the wires. I closed my eyes, let my hands take over. The crowd hushed instantly — that deep, focused kind of silence that only happens when something real is happening.
Then came the first verse. Sam's voice carried the lyrics like a secret he was trying not to break. I expected to feel exposed — gutted, even — but instead, something inside me settled.
Like finally saying everything I hadn't had the guts to say out loud.
Every line written in the dead hours of the night, a cigarette burning down and the weight of her absence pressing on my chest — it was all alive now. Breathing in this grimy little venue, bouncing off walls, finding ears that didn't know the story but might still understand the ache.
By the second chorus, Abigail came in on drums — steady, thoughtful. A pulse. I glanced at her. She smiled — not proud of the performance, but of me. Like this had been her plan all along.
Then I looked out into the crowd.
And I saw her.
Hannah.
Standing just off-center in the third row. Black jacket. Dark brown T-shirt. Her hair down — long, soft waves catching the red, green, and blue stage lights. Her green eyes locked on me. Not smiling. Just... looking. Like she knew. Like she heard every word and saw straight through me.
She looked sad.
She looked beautiful.
She looked real — so real it nearly dropped me to my knees.
Was I imagining her? Was it just the adrenaline, the lights, the song bleeding through every nerve?
The final line came.
"I'm still breathing — but barely surviving."
Silence.
Then the crowd exploded. Applause. Whistles. Cheers. But it was all distant. Like I was underwater.
I scanned the third row.
She was gone.
I stepped down from the stage, heart racing, pushing through the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of that jacket, those eyes, anything.
Nothing.
I shoved open the club doors and stepped into the night. The street buzzed with traffic, headlights sweeping past, people laughing, stumbling, living their lives like mine hadn't just cracked wide open. I paced the sidewalk, breathing heavy, my mind looping the moment like a broken record.
She was there. I know she was.
Unless she wasn't.
Unless I wanted it so badly, I made her up.
The worst part? I couldn't even tell.
"Hey," Abigail said gently behind me. Sam jogged up a second later, breathless. The music thumped faintly behind them, the next song already started.
"You okay?" she asked.
I turned toward them, trying to mask the spiraling chaos behind my eyes.
"Yeah," I lied. "Just needed some air."
I glanced one more time down the street.
Cars rolled past. People laughed without a care in the world. And Hannah — whether real or a ghost — was nowhere to be seen.
I didn't go back inside.
Sam and Abigail tried to convince me — told me people were asking about the song, that someone even wanted to buy us a round. But I couldn't. I felt like if I stepped back under those lights, I'd unravel in front of everyone.
So I walked. Down Main Street.
I ended up at the edge of town, by the train tracks. The metal rails glinted under the streetlamp glow, stretching off into the dark like they led somewhere better — or nowhere at all.
I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
I didn't know what was worse — that I saw her and lost her again, or that maybe I didn't see her at all.
I kept replaying it. The way she looked. That hollow stare. Those eyes that held so much and said nothing. That had to be her. No one else could look at me like that and make me feel like I'd swallowed broken glass.
And if it was her... why didn't she say anything?
Why didn't she stay?
Why now, after all this time?
I exhaled smoke and leaned back against the cold metal of a signal post.
Part of me wanted to scream. Another part wanted to laugh. It was such a sick joke — bleeding my heart out on stage, thinking I'd finally said what I couldn't say to her face... and then maybe she was actually there. Listening. And then gone.
Typical.
I buried my face in my hands. My skin was cold, my chest hotter than hell. The lyrics still echoed in my ears, only now they felt like a confession I hadn't meant to make. Not like that. Not public.
But it was out now.
All of it.
And somewhere in that crowd — maybe — so was she.
I stayed out there a long time. Until the cigarette burned too low to hold. Until the silence got too loud to ignore. Until I realized that, whether I saw her or not, she still had the same effect on me.
She could show up for five seconds, or not at all, and still wreck everything I thought I'd built back.
Still breathing — but barely surviving.
Yeah.
That line hit different now.
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