Chapter 16: Her Voice in Mine

The day had passed slowly—like a song stretching on too long without a chorus.

Classes felt distant, conversations muted. Even music class, which had once stirred something bright and eager in me, felt dimmer than usual. I had sung well. Ms. Hoshino had smiled her usual soft smile of approval, said I had grown more expressive with each passing lesson.

But something hung in the air. A thread pulling me backward.

Maybe it was the look in Alisa's eyes that morning as she adjusted my collar with unspoken care. Or maybe it was the silence at the breakfast table, not awkward, just watchful. Like she already knew something was ending.

When the car pulled into the driveway and I stepped through the doors of the Everhart estate, that quiet pressure in the air returned—thicker now, gentler, but undeniable.

She was waiting in the music room.

Alisa always seemed to know when something was coming to an end before I did.

A Familiar Smile

She sat at the piano, not playing, just tracing her fingers over the polished keys like they were made of glass. Her pale hair shimmered in the evening light, the braid across her shoulder slightly loosened. Her blouse was simple, soft ivory, with small mother-of-pearl buttons.

When she looked up, her smile was gentle, warm, but deeper somehow.

"Noah," she said softly, "can we talk?"

I stepped forward, setting my school bag down. "Of course."

She gestured for me to sit beside her on the cushioned bench.

"I've been thinking," she began, her voice low and melodic, "about your lessons with Ms. Hoshino."

I felt something shift in my chest.

I nodded slowly. "They've been going well."

"I know," she said, still smiling. "She's been very helpful."

Her fingers paused on the keys.

"But I think," she continued, turning her gaze toward me, "you're ready to move beyond needing a teacher."

The words hung in the air, too light to be cruel, but too heavy to ignore.

I blinked. "I… don't know if I am."

"You are," she said, not unkindly, but with the certainty of someone who had already decided.

I glanced away. "She's patient. I still mess up my breath control sometimes. And my falsetto's not as steady as it could be—"

Alisa reached out, touching my hand.

"Noah," she whispered, "your voice already knows the song."

I looked at her.

And she smiled like she'd just told me the most beautiful truth.

The Pull of Her Words

I wanted to protest again. To say I'm not ready. To explain how Ms. Hoshino's corrections still mattered, how her guidance felt like a map through the unfamiliar terrain of music.

But Alisa's hand closed around mine, warm and light, and something in her expression made the words stall in my throat.

"You don't need her anymore," she said softly. "You just need to listen to yourself."

Her other hand moved gently to my chest, over my heart.

"Your voice," she whispered, "was never meant to be trained like a tool. It's pure. Just like you. And when you sing, you carry everything inside you already. Why let someone else tell you how to feel it?"

My breath caught.

The room was quiet.

She always had a way of making her love feel like truth. Like the truth I couldn't see until she spoke it aloud.

Still, something in me resisted.

"But—"

"Noah," she said, cutting through softly, "do you trust me?"

I looked at her.

The way her eyes shimmered with softness, with certainty. The kind that wrapped around my ribs and pulled gently, gently.

"…Yes," I said, quieter than I intended.

She smiled again, the kind that was more than relief—it was satisfaction disguised as love.

"Then listen," she said, drawing me a little closer. "You don't need to rehearse anymore. You just need to sing when it matters. When it's for someone who truly hears you."

Her voice was calm. So calm.

"But… what about Ms. Hoshino?" I asked. "Should I thank her? Tell her goodbye?"

"I already did," Alisa said. "She was grateful to work with you. She understands."

It took me a second.

"You told her already?"

She nodded.

I paused. My heart beat a little faster, not with anger—but with that strange ache again. That feeling I sometimes got when her control revealed itself in soft, finished decisions.

Decisions I hadn't known we were making.

Alisa stood up and moved to the couch, settling into the cushions.

Then she opened her arms.

"Come here," she said gently.

And somehow, even though I wanted to stay where I was—wanted to hold onto that small thread of resistance—I stood and followed her.

I sat beside her quietly.

Her hands drew me closer. Carefully, she guided me down until my head rested in her lap.

She brushed a hand through my hair.

"You've done so well," she whispered. "You've grown so much."

I didn't say anything.

She continued stroking my hair with a tenderness that melted into the silence.

"You don't have to perform for anyone anymore. You don't need a stage, or approval. You don't need to improve to be worthy."

I closed my eyes.

Her voice was so soft I could barely hear it now.

"You just need to be mine."

The Stillness Between Us

The room was dim now, filled with a faint amber glow from the window. Her hand never stopped moving through my hair. Sometimes pausing to gently press against my temple, sometimes trailing down to my cheek with a feather-light touch.

I felt the ache in my chest again.

Not pain. Not exactly.

Just… being known too deeply.

Like she had peeled something back without ever asking.

And yet—I didn't want to move.

She was warmth.

She was silence where I didn't have to explain.

Later That Night

I stayed in her lap longer than I meant to.

At some point, she hummed softly. A song I didn't recognize. A lullaby maybe, or something wordless and private.

I didn't ask.

When she finally guided me up to my feet, her arms lingered around me.

"I love your voice," she said. "But I love your silence, too."

I looked at her, trying to find the right thing to say.

"I… still want to sing."

Her smile turned wistful.

"Then sing for me."

That night, in my room, I didn't sing.

But I lay in bed with the echo of her touch still on my skin, and her words like threads wrapped tightly around my lungs.

I knew I would sing again.

But next time, it wouldn't be for anyone else.

It would be for her.

Only her.