Page 75 of Melodies that Bind
Finding my seat again, Tristan finally appears before me. His face is different—softer, older, not the sharp-edged boy I grew up with. He drops to one knee, right in front of me, and takes my shaking hands in his.
“You did it, Lexi,” he says, voice steady as a lifeline. “You fucking did it.”
His grip is warm and solid. We sit like that for a long, silent minute, the sounds of celebration muffled by the thick green room walls.
I want to say something huge, something that can hold all the years and hurt and healing between us. But nothing comes. Nothing needs to. Tristan’s eyes tell me everything—the pride, the forgiveness, the love we never lost but almost forgot how to carry.
He hugs me, tight and fierce, and I hug back with everything left in me.
When we break apart, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the battered makeup counter. And for maybe the first time ever, I recognize the girl staring back.
Her hair is a mess, sweat streaked with glitter. Her eyes are red, eyeliner gone feral, mascara in little black crescents under each eye. Her throat is flushed from singing. There are lines there that didn’t used to be—pain and effort etched in—but she wears them like a badge.
She is not a product, or a punchline, or a ruined thing.
She is me. More me than I’ve ever been.
I hold her gaze, let the moment settle in my bones.
This is what it means to live.
This is what it means to begin.
