Play It Again

The last time I kissed Chris, the taste of rosin and cheap champagne was still on his mouth.

We were two terrified music students hiding in a practice room that smelled like dust and metal strings, playing a game of almosts. Almost ready. Almost brave. Almost more than friends. Then I leaned in, he bolted, and by the end of that week he was holding someone else’s hand in the hallway while I pretended nothing had happened.

That was five years and a lifetime ago.

Since graduation, I’ve built a careful existence around not thinking about him—teaching lessons, playing gigs, keeping my hands busy so my brain doesn’t wander back to that night. I still have the hoodie he left in my apartment. I still skip any song that reminds me of the duet we never quite nailed.

Now Chris is back in town, standing in front of me with the same crooked smile and a proposal I didn’t see coming: a second chance. At us. At the conversation we never finished. At the kiss I’ve replayed so many times it’s worn thin.

He says he ran because he was scared. He says he’s not running anymore.

All he’s asking is that I trust him with my heart again, like it’s a simple thing I can just hand over, not something I’ve spent years patching together with tape and late-night practice sessions. If I say yes, we don’t go back to where we left off—we start something that could change every note of the life I’ve finally learned to play alone.

And if he walks away again, there won’t be a third performance. Only silence where our music should have been.