"Some silences aren't peaceful. Some are just empty echoes of what should've been said."
---
The old radiator in Leila's apartment clicked to life like it was waking from a hundred-year slumber. Amira sat on the edge of the guest bed — if a foldable IKEA couch with two pillows counted as one — staring at the pale blue envelope on the fridge with her name scribbled across it in her sister's familiar cursive.
It was the only thing in the apartment that felt personal. That and the scent of sandalwood lingering faintly in the air, the kind Leila always wore on her pulse points.
Amira's duffel bags lay untouched near the door. Her phone was still on airplane mode. She couldn't bear to turn it on. Not yet. Not when she knew there'd be no messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
She took a deep breath and walked to the fridge, peeling the envelope from the magnet that said, "Life is jazz — unpredictable, messy, and usually better with wine." She snorted softly. Leila always had a quote for every emotion Amira couldn't name.
She opened the letter.
> Hey Mims,
If you're reading this, then things went south. Or weird. Or wild. I wish I could've been there when you arrived, but I had to fly out to Paris for the next 4 weeks for a culinary mentorship — and I know I should've told you earlier, but I didn't want you to change your mind about coming.
There's food in the freezer. Take anything you want. Your room (yes, it's still your room) is cleaned and made up. The spare key will always be at the window ledge.
Also… if your heart's broken again, which I'm guessing it is if you're here, please don't let it harden you. You're too bright to go dim over a man who couldn't hold a flame to you.
Love you always,
— L
PS: Check the record player. I left something for you. Trust me.
Amira folded the note slowly, placing it on the counter like it was made of porcelain. Her throat tightened as her eyes scanned the kitchen like it held the answers she came here for. She wasn't even sure what she wanted — closure? Clarity? Revenge? Maybe all three in unequal doses.
Her feet carried her toward the living room, past the hanging plants that looked better than any she'd ever managed to keep alive. The record player sat on a stand near the window, exactly where it had always been. But this time, a vintage vinyl sleeve leaned against it: Ella Fitzgerald: Songs in a Mellow Mood.
A tiny sticky note was attached.
> "Play Track 3. Repeat if necessary."
She placed the record gently on the player and dropped the needle. A moment later, Ella's voice wrapped around the room like silk — "I've got a crush on you… sweetie pie."
And just like that, the tears came.
Not the dramatic kind — just a quiet leak from the corners of her eyes as she collapsed onto the nearby armchair and let her heart do what it hadn't had time to do in the bar, or on the street, or during her awkward journey with three bags and a shattered dream.
Grieve.
---
The next morning, she woke up to soft light flooding the living room. She'd fallen asleep right there, still in her coat, mascara smudged in grey shadows under her eyes. She stared at the ceiling, the song from last night echoing faintly in her mind.
Amira had always been good at pretending. Pretending she was fine. Pretending she didn't need more. Pretending the silence from Noah wasn't eating her alive.
But today… pretending wasn't going to cut it.
She stood up, peeled off her coat, and walked to the bathroom. A long, hot shower later, she emerged in one of Leila's oversized sweatshirts and a pair of leggings. Her stomach growled, but the fridge was empty except for almond milk, frozen croissants, and enough hot sauce to kill a small army.
So she toasted a croissant, poured herself a cup of almond milk, and powered on her phone.
Zero messages.
Zero missed calls.
Her chest hollowed out again — but this time, it was quieter. Like she'd already expected it.
And maybe that was worse.
---
By noon, Amira had pulled out her laptop and started searching for jobs. Leila had once mentioned a jazz club not too far from here — one that was classy, underground, and famous for discovering raw talent.
"The Indigo Room"
She found the website. The design was sleek — all deep purples and golds, like velvet and candlelight.
NOW AUDITIONING FOR NIGHT VOCALISTS – Apply within. Bring voice and soul.
Her heart thudded. She hadn't performed in months. But something about the ad felt like fate was giving her a second breath.
She didn't even let herself think twice. She showered again. Did her makeup in quiet, precise movements. White waist-length hair brushed and curled at the ends. Black mini skin-tight dress with flared sleeves — classy but commanding. Red lips. Diamond studs.
She took the tube across town and walked three blocks in her heels through the cool London air. The city felt like an entirely different planet from New York. Same rhythm, different beat.
When she finally reached The Indigo Room, her heart pounded so loud she could barely hear the music floating out from behind the velvet curtains.
She stepped inside, and the air shifted.
The club was soaked in candlelight and whispers. A stage stood at the far end, draped in deep violet, with a single mic under a golden spotlight. A bartender nodded at her and pointed to a small sign that read:
"Auditions in Session – Enter Quietly."
She approached the manager — a sharply dressed woman in her forties with sharp cheekbones and an accent Amira couldn't quite place.
"I'm here to audition," she said, her voice calm, clear.
The woman glanced at her from head to toe, then gave a tight nod. "You're late. But go ahead. Impress me."
And just like that, Amira walked onto the stage, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood.
She took a deep breath, stepped up to the mic, and sang.
The moment Amira's lips parted and her voice slipped into the room, time paused.
She didn't choose something flashy. No Beyoncé. No Billie. No pop theatrics. She chose a classic. Raw. Bare. Honest.
"My Funny Valentine."
Her voice carried with delicate strength, like smoke weaving through velvet. The soft piano backing from the house musician adjusted instinctively to her tempo, matching the sultry ache in every note.
She wasn't trying to impress. She was telling a story.
And it bled.
Her heartbreak, her disappointment, her confusion — it all slipped between syllables like a secret the world wasn't meant to hear but was desperate to.
When the final note died out, there was a long, aching silence. The kind that spoke louder than applause.
Then — the claps came. Not thunderous. Not wild. But slow, deep, and honest.
The manager stood up.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice unreadable.
"Amira," she said softly, still gripping the mic stand like it was the only solid thing in the world.
"Well, Amira — you just found yourself a stage."
---
By the time she stepped back onto the pavement, London looked different.
Not softer. Not warmer.
But more open.
Like it had cracked its ribs slightly and offered her a place to sit.
She took the long route home, letting the city buzz around her. She passed food stalls, vintage bookshops, a couple sharing a cigarette under a shared coat, and a violinist playing near an alleyway with his eyes closed.
Everything was moving. Everyone had somewhere to be.
And maybe for the first time in weeks, so did she.
---
That night, Amira lay on her borrowed bed, staring at the ceiling.
The performance had unlocked something inside her. A hunger. A purpose.
It was never just about the boy. Or the betrayal. It was about her — what she had silenced inside herself for the sake of someone else's comfort. What she'd let rot because she'd been so desperate to be loved.
Noah had ghosted her without a goodbye.
But she was going to sing every damn song like it was her goodbye. To him. To the version of herself who waited for closure that would never come.
She smiled bitterly and turned off the light.
---
Three nights later, her first performance.
The club was fuller. Buzzier. The scent of cocktails and cigar smoke lingered in the air like perfume.
She wore black again — always black — but this time, a sleek jumpsuit with slits down the arms and deep V neckline. Her signature white hair framed her face like a halo dipped in ice. Her lips were wine-red.
She waited backstage, nerves taut like wires.
Until she heard her name.
"Debuting tonight — our newest voice and already one of our most haunting — give it up for Amira Valdez."
Spotlight.
Heartbeat.
She walked onto the stage, heels echoing like drumbeats.
Then — silence.
And she sang.
---
Somewhere in the crowd, Luca James was nursing a whiskey neat.
He didn't come for the music. He came because someone mentioned a new girl. A voice worth breaking silence for.
He didn't expect her.
Didn't expect the ache in her voice to punch him in the chest like he'd been dragged through his own memories.
He was a producer. A ghostwriter. A private soul with platinum plaques he never took credit for. He avoided drama like the plague. And women even more so.
But this one — this girl on stage with pain braided into every note — had something.
Something real.
He leaned closer.
---
A table away, another man watched her too.
Noah Kingston.
The same Noah.
He wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to be in London.
He should've still been in Manchester, finishing the campaign, letting her fade like a mistake he never had the courage to explain.
But there she was. Singing like a goddess who bled.
And it gutted him.
Because he saw her light again. The same light he'd buried.
The guilt hit him like ice water.
And worse? He wasn't the only one watching.
---
After her set, Amira stepped offstage to polite applause and murmurs of praise. The manager hugged her briefly and handed her a crisp envelope.
"Payment," she whispered. "And you've got another slot next weekend if you want it."
Amira smiled, breathless. "Yes. Absolutely."
She made her way to the bar, still buzzing. A ginger and bourbon cocktail appeared in front of her without her ordering.
She looked up.
Tall. Wavy brown hair. Dark denim jacket over a black shirt. Silver rings. A musician if she ever saw one.
"You sing like heartbreak's your religion," the stranger said.
She smirked. "Is that a compliment?"
He raised his glass. "Depends. Do you preach every Friday?"
"Maybe." Her eyes sparkled. "Who are you?"
"Luca." He extended a hand. "And you — are unforgettable."
She shook his hand. "Amira."
Noah watched from across the room, his jaw locked.
It was the first time he realized…
He might've let go of something he couldn't replace.