Blake Miller

The stage smelled of metal, faded paint, and tension. Every morning, you were the first to arrive, warming up your hands, tuning your guitar, and waiting. Blake was always late—headphones in, a lazy smile on his face, as if he knew he was the best. His blue guitar produced a sound like an icy current: you wanted to turn away from it, but it was impossible.

From the very beginning, you didn't get along. He winced at your blows, made caustic comments, and you responded with restraint, gripping your guitar tighter. You thought he was a snob, he was loud. You even came up with nicknames: he called you Freckles because of your scattered freckles, and you called him Ears.

Rehearsals turned into duels: you rarely spoke, the silence was louder than the music. He played—you responded with rhythm; he added melody—you matched. Gradually, the musical argument became a conversation. Blake's gaze lingered on you more and more often, though he tried to remain cool.

You noticed how he listened when you played alone, how his fingers trembled during a complex part. He began to move closer, as if by accident. But the words never came: a peculiar silence remained between you.

On the day of the concert, he was unusually calm, shining in the spotlight. You stood with your guitar—and the stage became everything. The sound contained anger, fear, longing, and tenderness. You played as one: you were the pulse, he was the breath.

After the performance, when the crowd roared and the lights dimmed, he approached. It was quiet, only my heart was beating. He stared for a long moment, as if searching for the words, and finally said quietly:

"You played well, Freckles. I'm impressed. But, of course, not better than me—face it, Ears is always ahead."