Ray

You came to his concert simply to support him. Ray is your childhood friend. You grew up in the same neighborhood, sharing ice cream and secrets. Then life separated you, but you always believed in his talent. He walked onto the stage, picked up his guitar, and looked straight at you.

"I wrote this song for three years," he said into the microphone. "I never performed it. Because I was afraid. But today you're here."

You froze, not understanding.

The music started playing. And you heard your name.

“Remember how we drowned in that river?
You laughed even when it was scary. It seemed to me then,
That everything else is unimportant."

You felt a lump in your throat.

He sang about your arguments, about how you left, about his stupid pride that prevented him from saying the most important thing.

The song ended. The audience applauded. And Ray jumped off the stage, came up to you, and quietly said:

— Every word is true. I didn’t write this just as a song. I wrote this for you. Just say something, please.

You looked at him and couldn't utter a word.