Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 126: One Note at a Time

Chapter 126: One Note at a Time

The city outside pulsed in electric blue and amber—neon signs bleeding through the blinds, their light crawling restlessly across the walls.

Inside the apartment, Billy sat on the edge of his bed, barefoot, his knees pulled slightly inward, fingers resting on the soft fabric of the sheets.

The place had grown quieter as the hours passed — the hum of traffic had dulled into something distant, like the sea behind a door.

He hadn’t turned on the main lights. Just the desk lamp.

Everything felt gentler that way.

A single notebook lay open beside him. The one he’d found earlier, filled with scribbled scenes and lyrics in his own handwriting — jagged, poetic, impulsive. Pages of thought, pain, dreams.

He flipped to the last page he’d read earlier.

One line caught his eye — written slanted in the corner:

"Don’t forget the pause between sentences. That’s where the truth hides."

He stared at it for a long while, breathing softly.

His phone — recently reactivated — buzzed once.

A single voicemail.

Unknown Number. Timestamp: months ago.

He hesitated.

Then pressed play.

A soft crackle.

Then... his own voice.

"Hey. It’s me. I’m probably already running late, sorry — the sky’s insane today. The wind almost took my script."

A light laugh broke through the static—carefree, like someone who didn’t yet know what he was about to lose.

"Anyway... I’ve been thinking about that line. The one where he chooses to stay. I think I get it now."

A pause. His voice lowers.

"Sometimes it’s not about what makes sense. It’s just about... what makes you feel alive."

"See you at the lake."

The message ended.

Billy sat frozen.

His own voice — so familiar, so unfamiliar.

But the way he said "see you at the lake" made his chest pull tight.

That wind he described. That line he mentioned.

Sea Breeze – Scene 28.

He closed his eyes.

And for a flicker of a moment...

He saw the shimmer of water.

Felt the wind against his face.

Felt someone’s hand — callused, warm — brushing his.

A soft smile.

Gone.

He opened his eyes again.

Nothing came back.

But something inside him whispered: You’re close.

Still stunned, Billy stood slowly—like movement itself might shatter the echo in the room.

He drifted to the piano by the window, each step uncertain, as if following a sound only he could hear.

He sat slowly.

His fingers hovered above the keys.

Then pressed the first note.

Soft. Low. Uncertain.

Another followed.

Then another.

The melody was uneven—like trying to walk barefoot across old memories. But it was there.

And in that quiet apartment, a boy without his name still found a way to speak through sound.

The melody wavered at first. Soft, uncertain. The kind of sound you could mistake for the wind brushing through curtains — delicate, hesitant, as if the piano itself was trying to remember how it once sang.

Billy’s fingers hovered above the keys, then pressed again — this time with more weight.

Low C.

A minor chord.

A haunting fifth.

The tune wasn’t one he could name. He wasn’t sure it ever had a name.

But his hands moved with a strange familiarity, like they were following a memory his mind couldn’t see.

His eyes closed.

The room faded.

He could feel something now — not sharp images, but feelings.

A quiet lake.

The wind pulling through linen curtains.

Laughter behind him.

A voice, distant but rich, saying something like — "Play it again. Don’t stop."

He didn’t know who the voice belonged to.

But it filled the hollow inside his chest like warm water.

His breath caught.

The note slipped.

He opened his eyes.

The melody fell away into silence.

Billy sat still, staring at the keys, his fingers trembling slightly.

Not from fear.

From almost.

He had almost touched something. Almost pulled a thread loose.

And then it vanished — like trying to hold mist in your hands.

The apartment was quiet again.

Only the city buzzed faintly outside.

Billy leaned forward, resting his forehead gently on his own arm across the keys.

The wood was cool beneath his skin. The scent of old polish and faded music lingered like a heartbeat.

"Who was I playing for...?" he whispered.

He didn’t expect an answer.

But somewhere deep inside — so quiet it didn’t even feel like a thought — came a whisper.

"You were never alone."

Billy closed his eyes again, letting the last echo of that lost melody fill the silence.

And in the glow of the desk lamp and the hush of city night...

he let himself feel the ache.

Not run from it.

Just feel it.

Because sometimes...

grief is how memory knocks before it walks in.

The morning sun crept in slowly, slipping through the half-closed blinds in pale streaks. Dust floated in the golden air, untouched.

Billy didn’t stir.

He was still curled on the couch, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach.

He hadn’t made it back to the bed. After the piano, he’d sat in silence, then slowly sunk into sleep where he sat.

The apartment was hushed.

Until—

Ding-dong.

The sound cut through the silence like a sharp breath.

Billy’s eyes blinked open, slow, unfocused. He stared at the ceiling for a second, lips slightly parted, trying to place himself.

Another chime.

Ding-dong.

He sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. His back ached from the awkward angle he’d slept in, and his hair was mussed against his forehead.

He stumbled toward the door, barefoot.

"Coming," he muttered, voice rough.

He cracked it open without checking.

Camila stood there — holding a paper bag in one hand, sunglasses pushed up onto her head, hair still damp from a quick shower.

"Good morning, or... whatever that was," she said with a smirk. "You look like you fought your dreams and lost."

Billy blinked at her, then stepped aside to let her in.

"I overslept."

"You didn’t. I just came too early." Camila breezed in like she’d done it a thousand times. "I figured you wouldn’t cook, so... I brought croissants. And coffee."

She held up the bag like a trophy.

Billy closed the door behind her and followed slowly to the kitchen.

"You didn’t have to," he said.

"I know. But I missed being bossy."

She unpacked the bag and set everything on the counter — croissants, butter, two coffees, and a tiny jar of jam she knew he used to hoard.

Billy leaned against the counter, watching her. There was something oddly comforting in her movements — like the world hadn’t completely shifted beneath his feet.

"You sleep okay?" she asked gently.

Billy hesitated, then nodded.

"Weird dreams," he murmured. "Not clear. But they felt... warm."

Camila looked over, setting down the coffee.

"That’s something."

He nodded slowly.

Then, after a pause:

"Do you know if I used to play piano a lot?"

Camila blinked, surprised.

"Yeah. Almost every night. Especially when you couldn’t sleep. You’d play with the lights off like some dramatic movie character."

Billy cracked the faintest smile.

"I found a melody last night. I don’t know what it was. But it felt like... me."

Camila’s expression softened.

"Then maybe that’s how you find your way back. Not all at once. Just note by note."

Billy looked down at the coffee cup, his fingers warming against it.

Outside, the city kept moving — cars, chatter, distant horns.

But in that small kitchen, surrounded by steam and croissants and the smell of something sweet — he didn’t feel lost.

Not completely.

Camila took a bite of croissant, half-listening to Billy talk about the strange tune from last night — until her phone buzzed against the counter.

She glanced at the screen.

Mom 💬 Incoming Call

"It’s Mom," she said, wiping her fingers. "She’s probably—"

"Worried?" Billy cut in softly.

Camila gave a guilty nod.

"She didn’t see you when she got home last night. I told her you were here... but you left your old phone, so she couldn’t call you directly."

She reached into her bag and pulled it out — the familiar black phone with a tiny scratch near the volume button.

"I figured you’d want it back."

Billy stared at it for a second. He didn’t reach for it.

"Answer her," he said. "Put it on speaker."

Camila paused, then did.

"Hey, Mom," she said gently. "I’m with him now. He’s okay."

There was a breath of relief on the other end — and then her voice, warm but shaky.

"Leo?"

Billy stepped closer.

"Hi... Mom."

A beat of silence.

Then:

"Thank God," she whispered.

Her voice cracked — just enough to reveal what she’d been holding in.

Not panic. Not anger. Just raw relief.

"I—I didn’t want to pressure you. I know you need space. But when I didn’t see you last night... I just—"

She cut herself off. Took a breath.

"Are you alright, sweetheart?"

Billy closed his eyes.

That word — sweetheart.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed being called that.

"Yeah. I’m okay. I just... I needed to be here. Alone. With it."

"Of course," she said gently. "Take all the time you need. I just... needed to hear your voice."

Camila stepped back quietly, letting them have this.

"I found some of my old stuff," Billy said softly. "Scripts. Music. My notebooks."

"That’s good," she replied. "Let it come to you slowly, Leo. Don’t chase it. Just... let it arrive."

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Thank you... for giving me time."

"It’s not time I’m giving," she said. "I want to give you love."

The line went quiet for a moment — just the soft hum of breath between them.

Then:

"Call me later? Even if it’s just to say hi?"

"I will."

"I love you."

"I... I love you too."

Camila ended the call quietly and slid the phone across the counter to him.

"She needed that," she said softly.

Billy picked up the phone, staring at the lock screen — a sunlit lake. The same lake from his apartment wall... but this time, he was in it. Laughing. Shirt soaked. Alive in a way he hadn’t felt in weeks.

Something in his heart jolted.

But he said nothing.

Just locked the phone.

And set it down beside him.