The applause faded slowly, like the last vibrations of a struck chord. As they left the stage, adrenaline still pulsing through their veins, none of them spoke. They didn't need to. The performance had spoken for them—about loss, healing, and all the spaces between.
Backstage, judges gave short nods and scribbled notes. Other bands clapped politely. But there was a quiet reverence in the air, the kind that follows a performance too honest to ignore.
Lívia sat down on the edge of the stage, breathless. She looked up at the soft lights above and let herself exhale fully for the first time in weeks.
Duda flopped beside her, pulling off her drum gloves. "I think we just broke a few hearts out there."
Leo leaned against a speaker, smiling faintly. "You broke mine during the bridge."
Duda blinked, stunned into silence. Leo never flirted—never spoke his heart like that. For once, her laughter didn't cover the truth. It highlighted it.
Miguel knelt beside Lívia, holding out a bottle of water. "You were incredible."
"So were you," she said, surprised at how easily the words came.
They weren't together again, not officially. But something had changed since they had played. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe both.
A week later, the results were posted. Second Verse had taken second place, just shy of the scholarship. But for the group, it didn't feel like a loss. They had gained something far more lasting: clarity.
Lívia's relationship with her sister slowly mended—not with grand gestures, but with shared car rides and conversations that no longer ended in tears. Marina had come to the contest, quietly seated in the back row, and had clapped harder than anyone when the band finished. Afterward, she hugged Lívia like she hadn't in years.
"You were right to trust your voice," Marina whispered.
In the months that followed, Lívia recorded her first demo with help from a local producer who had seen her perform. Duda and Leo started dating, their tension finally unraveling into something soft and steady. Miguel and Lívia? They kept playing together. Not every day. Not always alone. But enough.
Music had given them answers—but more importantly, it had given them space to ask better questions.
And the missing song? It was no longer missing.
It had simply been waiting to be lived.