The days that followed his departure were quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that heals.
The kind that lingers.
The kind that hums in your chest and asks,
> "What now?"
---
I kept waking up before the sun.
Out of habit.
Out of fear.
Sometimes I imagined he'd be in the kitchen —
wearing that grey hoodie I loved,
singing off-key while burning toast.
But it was always just me.
And a guitar he left behind.
---
The EP dropped the next week.
"For the Silence Between Us."
My voice.
His chords.
No lies.
No polish.
It went viral.
Top charts.
Fan covers.
Global praise.
But the night it hit number one…
I cried harder than the day he left.
Because he wasn't there to see it.
Because we weren't there.
---
The agency stayed quiet.
Too bruised to retaliate.
Too exposed to hide.
People forgot them.
They remembered us.
---
Then one evening, I got an envelope.
No stamp.
No sender.
Inside: a USB.
And a note.
> "If you're reading this,
it means I made it out."
My hands trembled.
I ran to the studio.
Plugged it in.
Held my breath.
---
The file was titled:
"One Last Track."
It was his voice.
Clear.
Worn.
Beautiful.
He wasn't singing to fans.
He was singing to me.
> "You sang me back to life.
But I never learned how to stay.
So I left a song instead —
The only kind of forever I can give."
---
The music rose like waves.
Not desperate.
Not broken.
Peaceful.
> "They can't find me anymore.
But I found myself.
And in every chord you sing,
I'll live louder than ever."
---
I collapsed in the studio chair.
Tears, yes.
But no regret.
I pressed 'record'.
Opened my mouth.
And sang into the track.
Our final duet.
Separated by miles.
Connected by echoes.
---
The world would never know where he went.
Neither would I.
But I knew he left me more than a goodbye.
He left me a legacy.
A song no one could silence.