Melody

You lay in the darkness, feeling the cold sweat slowly dry on your temples. Your heart was still pounding from that dream: you were standing on the school's makeshift stage again, the deafening roar of the bass guitar in your ears, a sweat-slick microphone in your hand. And before your eyes, Melody's smile, her fingers flying across the fretboard, striking sparks. You weren't just a band; we were an entire universe.

You turned to face your sleeping husband. His even breathing was the sound of your present—stable, predictable, true. On the nightstand, in the light of the street lamp, stood two photos: your wedding, in a white dress, and a yellowed photo of two girls with a guitar and a microphone, merging in one uncontrollable laugh. Sadness washed over you in a quiet, heavy wave, and you smothered it in your pillow.

A couple of days later, wandering among the grocery shelves, you mechanically picked out some tangerines. It smelled of citrus and cleanliness. And then—the smell of dust from the stage, the cheap incense you'd used to fumigate your basement rehearsal space… you froze. The orange ball slipped from your hands and rolled across the glossy floor, hitting a worn-out sneaker.

You looked up.

She stood there, holding a bottle of beer, wearing a leather jacket, with sun-bleached streaks in her hair. She was the same, only her features were sharper, and her gaze held even more of that reckless freedom you once shared. Time stood still in the space between the dairy aisle and the meat department.

She picked up your tangerine, and a familiar, slightly crooked smile touched her lips.

“Do you remember how we said that no one could change our style and our lives?” Melody said quietly, and her voice carried all of your youth, all the nostalgia for what would forever become music without words.