"It hurts when you have someone in your heart, but you can't have them in your arms."
— Unknown

⸻

The final night of the tour.
The last concert.
Purple lights washed the stage like an unspoken goodbye.

Gawin stood centerstage, dressed in a deep violet suit.
The spotlight hit from above —
he looked like he was singing beneath a lonely sky.

His face was as soft as the day he debuted.
Still the same voice.
But each note landed heavier,
as if something was breaking,
even though no one had cried yet.

In his voice... I heard something heavier than farewell.
As if he were singing on behalf of someone.
Or... letting someone go
through the very song he was singing.

He performed the last track —
a song with no name.

No one knew where it came from.
It wasn't in the album.
It wasn't on the setlist.

He simply told the tech:

"I want to sing one more.
It's the last night.
Call it... a gift for someone special."

⸻

I sat in the third row.
No earpiece.
No schedule clipboard.

Black shirt.
A coat draped over me to hide the dried blood streaking my clothes.

For the first time in my life,
I came to hear him sing not for work,
not out of duty —

but because I wanted to hear him.
Just once more.

He didn't know I had snuck out of the hospital.
Didn't know every step toward the theatre had come with coughing fits,
blood leaking through my teeth.

He didn't know that tonight...
I wouldn't be going home.

But it was okay.
He didn't need to know.
I just needed to be alive
inside his voice.

The song wasn't grand.
It didn't scream.
It was quiet.
Slow.
Soft like winter rain falling into open hands.

His voice — hoarse and gentle —
each word sounding like a forgiveness
meant for no one but himself.

And when he reached the last line—

"I loved you in a way no one ever taught me how to name."

I smiled.

The lights flashed one last time.

I collapsed.

No sound.
No one noticed.

Just a body folding forward,
silent —
like a final note abandoned at the end of a fading chorus.

My chest soaked with blood.
One purple petal slipped from between my lips.

A carnation.
Slightly curled.
Still soft.
Still fragrant.
Like a letter never sent,
because the writer let go first.

⸻

It wasn't a fan who found me.

It was you — Gawin —
walking backstage to ask me about post-production edits for your new track.

You saw me there.
Slumped against the theatre seat.
Eyes half-closed.

One hand resting on an old black notebook,
edges frayed from years of use.
At my feet —
three glass jars.

Inside: pressed flowers.
Each petal flattened with care,
as if preserving the very shape of the love I gave you.

Every petal marked a time you called me "my dear friend."

⸻

Your hands trembled as you opened the notebook.

The first page:
"Things I Never Said."

Each entry:
Unsent confessions.
Drafts I helped polish at 3 a.m.
Blood I coughed up in the studio restroom —
and returned to the control room as if nothing happened.
Moments I wished I was someone else —
someone good enough to be the one you'd sing about.

A whole chapter of life...
you never knew you were a part of.

⸻

The final page held a song draft never recorded.
Handwriting slanted.
Ink shaky.
Some parts smudged —
water, maybe.
Or something else.

Title: For the One I Never Had

Thank you for never loving me.
Because if you had...
I would've never written this song.
And now that I'm gone—
At least I've loved you...
until my very last note.

You sat down beside my body.
No screaming.
No please don't go.
No don't die.

You just held my hand —
already cold —
still shaped like it was about to press the first chord for you.

You didn't speak for a long time.
Then, so quietly:

"Thank you...
for loving me until your very last breath."

No one was to blame.
No one owed anyone anything.

I loved you.
And you didn't love me.

Love was never a song
everyone could sing in the same key.

⸻

You took the notebook home.
A few months later,
you released a new EP.

The final track had no lyrics.
Just a quiet guitar instrumental.

Its title was one letter: J.

No one knew who it was for.
No one needed to know.

If this was a love song —
then I was the ending that never got recorded.

But at least,

I stayed long enough
to quietly write my name
between the blank lines you never filled.

⸻