Love in the Key of Us
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 938
Celeste was halfway out of her seat when the first chord stopped her cold.
It wasn’t just any song. It was theirs.
Her breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of the bar. Her body knew the melody before her mind caught up, before she even turned to confirm what she already felt deep in her bones.
And then—
His voice.
Rougher now, threaded with time, but unmistakable.
She turned slowly, as if moving too fast would shatter her.
Amir stood on stage, his head tilted toward the mic, his fingers drifting over the guitar strings with the same ease that once sent shivers down her spine. The low stage lights bathed his skin in amber, casting shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
She hadn’t seen him in ten years.
Yet here he was.
Singing the song he wrote for her.
Celeste’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The air in the room thickened, the noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading into nothing.
Kai, her best friend, nudged her. “You okay?”
Celeste forced a nod, even as her chest tightened.
Because this wasn’t just a song.
This was him.
And the past was no longer buried.
Her body screamed it—her legs already shifting, fingers itching to grab her purse.
But she didn’t move.
Because she felt him coming.
The moment the song ended, Amir’s gaze swept the room, searching.
Finding.
Locking onto her.
Celeste inhaled sharply.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did she.
Then—he moved.
His guitar was handed off, his steps deliberate as he weaved through the crowd. People clapped him on the back, spoke his name, but his focus never wavered.
Within seconds, he was standing in front of her.
Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes.
Neither of them spoke.
Finally, Amir exhaled.
“Cel.”
It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t a greeting.
It was something heavier.
Her name had never been just her name with him.
She swallowed. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Same.” His voice was rough, but steady. “And yet…”
Here they were.
Here they always seemed to end up.
She glanced at the empty stage. “Still playing?”
He shrugged. “Only ever stopped when I lost the reason to.”
The words landed somewhere deep, cracking through a place she had spent years keeping sealed.
Her fingers curled into her palms. “I heard the song.”
Amir tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Did you?”
“Don’t do that.” Her voice came out quieter than she meant.
“Do what?”
“Pretend it wasn’t about me.”
He let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.
“Celeste,” he murmured, “I haven’t even pretended to be over you.”
Her heart stumbled.
Because neither had she.
“Sing for me.”
The words left her before she could stop them.
Amir’s brows lifted slightly, his expression unreadable.
A challenge.
A test.
Then, without a word, he reached for her hand.
The moment his fingers brushed hers, a spark shot up her arm, igniting something deep in her chest.
She should have pulled away.
She didn’t.
Because she couldn’t.
Without hesitation, Amir led her toward the stage.
The singer had just stepped off, but with one look from Amir, the band nodded.
This was his moment.
But somehow, it felt like theirs.
He settled onto the stool, adjusting the guitar strap, fingers brushing the strings like they were second nature.
Then—
The first note.
Soft. Unfinished.
A breath.
And then his voice—deep, warm, undeniable.
"Have you ever needed something so bad, you can’t sleep at night?"
The room stilled.
Celeste barely noticed the crowd anymore.
All she could hear was him.
All she could feel was every unspoken thing between them.
The song built, the melody swelling, wrapping around her like a memory too strong to ignore.
Her throat tightened.
Because she had needed him.
She had needed him so much it terrified her.
And she had walked away.
Telling herself it was for the best.
Telling herself that if they were truly meant for each other, the universe would find a way.
Now, a decade later, he was standing right in front of her.
And the universe was handing her a choice.
Again.
The last chord faded.
Silence.
Then, applause.
But Celeste didn’t move.
Neither did Amir.
He set the guitar down, gaze locked onto her.
She stood, breath unsteady, pulse hammering.
“Cel…”
Her name wasn’t just her name. It was a question. A plea.
And she—who had spent a decade pretending she didn’t miss him, didn’t need him—finally broke.
“Why didn’t you ever come after me?” she whispered.
Amir exhaled. “You left.”
“You let me.”
His jaw tensed. “What was I supposed to do, Cel? Chase you when you made it clear you wanted to go?”
She swallowed. “I didn’t want to go.”
His eyes darkened. “Then why did you?”
Her throat burned. “Because I didn’t think I could survive loving you.”
Silence.
And then, barely above a whisper—
“You didn’t.”
Celeste’s breath caught.
Because he was right.
She hadn’t survived it.
She had just spent ten years pretending she did.
Her hands trembled. Amir watched her, his gaze never leaving hers.
"You still love me?" she asked, voice barely above a breath.
A beat.
Then—
"Have you ever stopped?"
She closed her eyes.
"No."
When she opened them, Amir was already reaching for her, pulling her in, pressing his forehead to hers.
And just like that—
The years between them fell away.
The past, the pain, the distance—none of it mattered.
Because some people—
Some loves—
Weren’t meant to be let go.
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