Chapter 3 – The Space Between Notes
Open mic nights at The Elmwood Café were always warmer than the rest of the week.
Not temperature-wise—the ancient heater near the door worked only when it felt like it—but in atmosphere. The lights were dimmed lower, strings of small golden bulbs draped along the back wall, casting everything in a soft glow that made even awkward poetry feel profound.
I arrived ten minutes early.
Not because I was eager.
Because I didn't want to be the one walking in and scanning the room like I cared.
I cared.
I hated that I cared.
The chalkboard sign near the counter read:
OPEN MIC – SIGN-UP SHEET BY THE ESPRESSO MACHINE
A guy with a man bun was already tuning a guitar near the corner stage. Two women sat cross-legged on the floor debating whether to read something "new and vulnerable" or "old and safe."
I ordered a tea I didn't really want and chose a small table near the wall—close enough to see the stage, far enough not to feel exposed.
I told myself if Liam didn't show up, it wouldn't matter.
It would mean nothing.
It would not confirm that the fragile thread between us had been imaginary.
At exactly 7:03 p.m., the door opened.
And there he was.
He paused just inside, scanning the room—not nervously, just orienting himself. When his eyes landed on me, something in his posture softened.
He smiled.
Not wide. Not performative.
Just real.
He walked over without hesitation.
"I was starting to think you weren't coming," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyebrow lifted. "It's been three minutes."
"I'm aware."
He pulled out the chair across from me. "I said I would."
I nodded, pretending that steadiness didn't mean something.
"You don't have your camera," I observed.
"Tonight I'm just watching."
"That's new."
"Not entirely."
He glanced toward the stage as the host tapped the microphone.
"Sometimes," he added quietly, "you don't need to capture a moment for it to count."
The words settled in the space between us.
The first performer—a college freshman by the look of him—read a poem about unrequited love. It was dramatic and slightly overwrought, but sincere.
Liam listened intently.
Not distracted. Not amused.
Present.
I found myself watching him more than the stage.
He leaned forward slightly when something resonated. His mouth curved faintly at lines he appreciated. He didn't clap politely—he clapped fully.
"You take this very seriously," I murmured after the third performer finished.
"People are brave up there," he said.
"Brave?"
"They're choosing to be seen."
The phrase sent a quiet ripple through me.
"Is that how you see it?" I asked.
"Yes." He glanced at me. "Isn't that why you come?"
I opened my mouth to answer and realized he was right.
I had started coming months ago, during a rough patch with Daniel. Sitting in the dim light, listening to strangers spill pieces of themselves, had felt strangely comforting. Like proof that everyone was carrying something.
"I don't perform," I said.
"You don't have to."
"That's not what I meant."
He studied me for a moment.
"You're afraid of being misunderstood," he said.
It wasn't a question.
My stomach tightened.
"You really need to stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like you can see through me."
He leaned back slightly, giving me space.
"I don't see through you," he said calmly. "I just see you."
The distinction made my pulse stutter.
Before I could respond, the host returned to the mic.
"Alright, next up we have—Maya?"
My head snapped up.
The room shifted.
I stared at the stage.
"That's not funny," I whispered.
Liam's brows drew together. "Did you sign up?"
"No."
The host squinted at the clipboard. "Maya Thompson?"
That was definitely my name.
A ripple of polite applause began, hesitant but encouraging.
Heat flooded my face.
"I didn't put my name down," I insisted.
Liam looked at the sign-up sheet near the counter, then back at me.
"Do you want to go up?" he asked quietly.
"No."
He nodded once.
"Then don't."
Simple.
The applause faltered as no one moved.
The host cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh… maybe she stepped out. Okay, moving on."
The tension dissipated.
I let out a shaky breath.
"Was that you?" I demanded under my breath.
"What?" He looked genuinely startled.
"Did you put my name on the list?"
"No."
"You didn't?"
"No." A pause. "But I would have asked first."
Despite my panic, I believed him.
"Sorry," I muttered.
"It's okay."
We fell silent again as a woman with silver hair took the stage and began reading something about grief.
Her voice trembled at first, then steadied.
Halfway through, I felt it—the tightening in my throat, the pressure behind my eyes.
Not because I was thinking about Daniel.
But because I recognized the ache in her words. The specific loneliness of missing someone who wasn't coming back.
Beside me, Liam didn't look at me.
He just reached his hand across the small table.
Not demanding.
Not intrusive.
Open.
An offering.
I stared at it.
At the simple, quiet gesture.
This wasn't romance.
It wasn't flirtation.
It was presence.
Slowly, I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine gently, grounding.
We didn't look at each other.
We just listened.
And for the first time since the breakup, I didn't feel like I was unraveling alone.
After the event, we stepped outside into cool night air.
The street was quieter now, most shops dark, windows reflecting scattered streetlight.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah."
It wasn't a lie.
He nodded.
"I didn't put your name down," he said again, almost absently.
"I know."
"You would've been good up there."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
I huffed a soft laugh. "You've never even heard me speak for more than five consecutive minutes."
"I've heard enough."
We started walking without discussing direction.
"I used to write," I admitted after a block.
He didn't react dramatically. Just waited.
"In college," I continued. "Poetry. Short essays. Nothing important."
"Why'd you stop?"
I shrugged. "Life."
"That's vague."
"I got practical. Real job. Real relationship. Real responsibilities."
"And writing wasn't real?"
"It didn't feel… sustainable."
He stopped walking.
I took another step before noticing and turning back.
"You think art has to be sustainable to be real?" he asked.
There was no accusation in his voice. Just curiosity.
"I think," I said carefully, "that not everyone gets to chase things that don't pay rent."
"That's fair."
He resumed walking.
"But you weren't chasing it," he added quietly. "You were expressing something."
The way he said it made my chest tighten.
"Daniel didn't get it," I said before I could filter myself.
Liam didn't interrupt.
"He thought it was cute at first. Then he thought it was dramatic. Then he thought it was self-indulgent."
"And you?"
"I thought maybe he was right."
We reached the corner near my apartment building.
The same place we'd stood the first night.
"It wasn't self-indulgent," Liam said.
"You don't know that."
"I know what it's like when someone dismisses the thing that makes you feel most like yourself."
The quiet intensity in his voice made me look at him fully.
"She didn't like photography?" I asked.
"She thought it was a phase."
"And?"
"And I let her believe that for too long."
Something flickered across his face—regret, maybe.
"You said loving someone means showing up," I said softly.
"Yes."
"Did she show up for you?"
He held my gaze.
"Not in the way I needed."
The admission felt heavy.
We stood there again, the air thick with things neither of us were fully naming.
"You scare me a little," I blurted.
His brows lifted slightly. "Why?"
"Because you see things."
"Like?"
"Like the parts of me I've been trying to shrink."
His expression didn't change.
"Maybe they weren't meant to be small," he said.
The words landed somewhere deep and tender.
"I just got out of something," I reminded him, almost defensively.
"I know."
"I'm not ready for…"
I trailed off.
He stepped back slightly, giving the statement room.
"For what?" he asked gently.
"For another person to matter."
The honesty shocked me.
He didn't flinch.
"Okay," he said simply.
That was it.
No persuasion.
No disappointment.
Just acceptance.
"You're not asking for anything?" I said.
"No."
"Not even a definition of what this is?"
He glanced between us.
"This?" A faint smile. "This is two people talking."
"And if it becomes more?"
"Then we'll decide that when it happens."
His steadiness both comforted and unsettled me.
"You're very calm," I said.
"Not always."
"When are you not?"
"When I care about something I can't control."
The words hung in the air between us.
"And do you?" I asked quietly.
His gaze met mine.
"Yes."
The answer was soft.
Certain.
My heart stumbled.
I didn't know whether he meant me.
I didn't know if I wanted to.
"I should go," I said again, though this time it felt different.
Less escape.
More pause.
"Okay."
He didn't move away immediately.
Neither did I.
The space between us felt charged—not with urgency, but with possibility.
He lifted his hand slightly, like he might touch my cheek.
Then lowered it.
"Goodnight, Maya."
"Goodnight, Liam."
I climbed the stairs.
Halfway up, I stopped.
Turned.
He was still there.
Not watching protectively this time.
Just… looking.
Like he was memorizing something.
Inside my apartment, I leaned against the door after closing it.
My pulse hadn't settled.
Not from fear.
From awareness.
This wasn't like what I had with Daniel.
That had been comfortable from the beginning. Easy. Predictable.
This felt like standing at the edge of water, unsure how deep it went.
I walked to my desk.
Opened a drawer I hadn't touched in months.
Inside was an old leather notebook.
I stared at it for a long moment before pulling it out.
The pages smelled faintly of ink and time.
I flipped to a blank page.
Stared.
My mind felt loud, crowded with feelings I didn't yet have language for.
But slowly, the words came.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
Just honest.
I wrote about rain and broken signs.
About strangers who feel familiar.
About the space between endings and beginnings.
When I finally looked up, an hour had passed.
The apartment was still quiet.
But it no longer felt empty.
My phone buzzed on the desk beside me.
A message.
From Liam.
I'm glad you didn't disappear.
I stared at the screen.
My fingers hovered before typing back.
I'm starting to think I won't.
The reply came a minute later.
Good.
I set the phone down, heart steadying.
For the first time in weeks, the future didn't feel like something that had been taken from me.
It felt unwritten.
And maybe—
just maybe—
that was better.