𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧' 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 ─────⋆⋅★𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺

𝟓𝟐. 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐮𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐨

She sang through the black rain, letting it wash over her, feeling it sink into her skin, marking her as it claimed her dress. Her veil, once soft and ethereal, was now streaked with shadows, clinging to her like a ghostly reminder of the love she couldn't let go. She could feel the audience's collective breath hitch, the weight of their silence pressing down as they watched her transformation.

Abel descended the stairs slowly, his voice joining hers in a low, resonant harmony as he crossed the stage, reaching out as if he could bridge the distance between them. His voice was filled with longing, and for a moment, their voices intertwined, a desperate, yearning echo that seemed to fill the vast emptiness between them.

But even as he moved toward her, Suki was slipping further away, her body collapsing against the doorway, her gown trailing like midnight across the floor as the last note left her lips, fragile. She reached out one trembling hand, her fingers grazing the air between them before her strength gave out, and she sank to the floor, her dress pooling around her like a lake of spilled ink.

Abel's hand stretched out, his face stricken as he knelt beside her, but he didn't touch her. He couldn't—not in this space, not with the gulf of everything unsaid between them. The lights dimmed, the shadowed mansion dissolving into the darkness, leaving only the image of Suki's figure, drenched and broken, lying motionless in the doorway, her once-white gown a black, tear-streaked memory.

The stage fell to silence, the house dissolving into darkness, leaving the audience in stunned silence, breath held in the wake of what they'd just witnessed—a love that had crumbled, laid bare for all to see.

The set was drenched in shadows, an ocean of deep blue that swallowed the Grammy theater in a haunting, almost dreamlike glow. Every surface, from the stretching bridge of a table that cut through the audience to the looming darkness beyond, seemed to shimmer as if dipped in moonlight. Suki stood at one end of that table, a vision of raw vulnerability, her hair wet, tangled, plastered to her shoulders, giving her the appearance of a woman who had walked through a storm only to find herself here, exposed before thousands. Across from her, on the opposite end of the table, sat Abel his figure wrapped in shadows, sharp in his suit, a solemn specter mirroring her heartbreak from afar.

A murmur swept through the crowd as the music began, a slow, haunting pulse that seemed to bleed into every corner of the room. The audience fell silent, as if realizing they were about to witness something beyond a mere performance. Suki took a breath, gripping the edge of the table, her fingers tracing the rough wood as if it were her only anchor. She closed her eyes, letting the first lyric rise from her lips like a confession.

"Will I ever love the same way again?"

Her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it held an ache that seemed to reverberate off every surface in the room. Each word carried the weight of a thousand memories, each note woven with threads of sorrow and longing. She sang as if she were peeling back her own skin, as if the audience wasn't there at all, just her, alone, lost in a song she had written for someone she couldn't let go.

"Will I ever love somebody like the way I did you?"

As her voice floated over the crowd, her gaze lifted, daring to search through the dimly lit faces for him. Drew. Her eyes found him quickly, his face a shadow among so many, but unmistakable to her. For a heartbeat, she locked onto him, her words no longer just lyrics but a plea, an unraveling. She wasn't singing to the audience; she was singing to him, she was giving him the private show - asking him to understand, to remember.

"Do I sit this one out and wait for the next life?"

The question lingered, raw and unanswered, and though she tore her gaze away, her voice carried her longing into the darkness.