Chapter 6: — "Heartbeats"

The music room was silent.

Ren sat cross-legged on the floor, guitar across his knees, fingers poised but motionless. The sunlight from the tall windows hit his hair, but he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on a blank sheet of music paper, the lines empty like the room itself.

He had tried.

He had tried to start the song without her. Strummed chords, scribbled lyrics, hummed melodies, but nothing sounded right. Each note felt hollow, incomplete. The spaces where Miyu’s violin should have spoken were empty, echoing back only his own frustration.

Ren slammed the pick down, the sound harsh in the quiet. “Why does it feel… wrong?” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Why can’t I do this without you?”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the afternoon light fading to a soft gold. Every note he played seemed to demand her presence, every chord begged for her melody to follow.

He closed his eyes and imagined her, the way her bow had danced across the strings, the intensity in her eyes, the subtle smile when their music aligned perfectly. His chest tightened. He missed her. He hadn’t realized just how much until now.

Ren picked up the guitar again, strumming slowly, softly, almost hesitantly. He hummed a melody, simple at first, clumsy, then more confident, until he found a fragment of the song they had started together—the portion where her violin had whispered against his chords by the ocean.

The memory made him wince.

It wasn’t enough. Not without her.

He rested his head on the guitar, sighing. “Why did you leave, Miyu?” he whispered. His voice barely more than a breath. “I wasn’t trying to… I just wanted to make music with you.”

The faint breeze fluttered through the window, carrying with it the distant sound of waves, the same rhythm that had accompanied their first duet. Ren’s fingers twitched, strumming again, trying to catch the echo of her presence.

Hours passed in silence, broken only by the soft hum of his own guitar. He scribbled a line here, erased a chord there, but nothing felt right. Each attempt reminded him of her absence, each pause deepened the ache in his chest.

He could almost hear her voice, almost see her standing across the room, violin in hand, eyes bright with determination. Almost.

But the memory faded every time he looked up.

Ren pressed his palm to his forehead, frustration and longing mingling in a painful knot. “I don’t even care if it’s perfect,” he admitted aloud, voice trembling. “I just… I just want to play it with you. That’s all that matters.”

He strummed again, slower this time, letting each note linger. His fingers bled into the melody, each chord a heartbeat calling for her, hoping somehow she might hear it, somewhere, someday.

Ren rested the guitar on his lap, closing his eyes. A quiet thought whispered in his mind, unbidden and relentless:
If only Miyu were here…

For the first time, he realized the depth of what he felt, not just admiration, not just friendship, but something more fragile and frightening. The music had always been their bridge, but now, without her, it felt like a lifeline dangling just out of reach.

The room grew dimmer as the sun sank, casting long shadows across the floor. Ren’s fingers moved automatically over the strings, coaxing the beginnings of their song from the silence. It was messy, incomplete, but it was honest.

He hummed the fragment of melody again, imagining her violin answering him, and for a fleeting moment, the music seemed alive.

And though the note faded into the emptiness of the room, Ren clung to it.

He would finish the song. Somehow.

Even if he had to do it alone.

Even if it killed him to wait.

Because Miyu’s music, and her, were worth every heartbeat, every struggle, every silent, aching note.