Lívia didn't return to the music room immediately. Her fingers still trembled when she thought of the keys. But something had shifted inside her—a crack where the light began to enter. She started scribbling lyrics again in her notebook during classes. Quietly. Carefully. It was her way of breathing again.
Duda remained a steady presence. She didn't push anymore. Instead, she offered silent support—sharing new bands, leaving music notes in Lívia's locker, and talking about everything except Miguel. Lívia appreciated it more than she could say.
One afternoon, as the sun set over the soccer field, Leo found her sitting alone under the bleachers, humming a melody. He sat beside her without a word, pulled out his bass, and matched her hum with soft notes. For a while, they didn't speak. They just played. And that silence said more than any apology.
"Do you think we can play again?" she asked eventually.
Leo nodded. "Only if you're ready. But the band... we're not the same without you."
That night, Lívia reopened her music journal. Pages and pages of half-finished songs stared back at her. Some reminded her of Miguel. Others, of moments long gone. But a new song began forming—a melody full of ache and resilience. She titled it "The Missing Song."
When she showed it to Duda and Leo, they listened in silence. Duda wiped away a tear. "It's beautiful. And it's yours."
Miguel, meanwhile, had withdrawn into himself. He still came to school, but kept his distance. One day, he left a note in Lívia's locker. No explanations. Just lyrics—unfinished—and a line that read: "Maybe one day, we'll finish this together."
Lívia didn't know what the future held for them. But she knew this: music was still hers. And no betrayal could take that away.