Spring arrived with the scent of blooming jacarandas and a new promise in the air. After the emotional upheavals of the past semester, the school announced a regional music contest that would bring together students from neighboring towns. Unlike the earlier festival, this one was serious: a live performance judged by professional musicians, with the possibility of a scholarship to a music conservatory in São Paulo.
The announcement hit Lívia like a sudden downbeat—surprising, intense, yet full of potential. At first, she hesitated. Her confidence had returned slowly, like sunlight filtering through thick curtains. But something inside her stirred: the feeling that she had unfinished business with music.
Duda was the first to bring it up during lunch.
"We should do it," she said, eyes shining with determination. "You, me, Leo... maybe even Miguel."
Lívia bit her lip. "I don't know. It's different now. We're different."
Duda grinned. "Exactly why we should. Music isn't about pretending everything's fine. It's about saying things we can't say out loud."
Leo nodded, quiet as ever, but his gaze carried the same fire. He had grown too—bolder on stage, more open off it. And he still watched Duda like she was the only drumbeat that mattered.
Later that week, Lívia found herself back in the music room, the piano keys warm under her fingertips. Miguel entered silently, guitar in hand.
"I heard about the contest," he said, his voice cautious.
She nodded. "Are you thinking of entering?"
"I was thinking we could enter."
A pause. Then a soft smile. "Only if we start fresh."
And so they did. Rehearsals began again, but this time under new terms. No secrets. No old wounds reopened. Just music.
They wrote new songs—raw, real, and vulnerable. Lívia's lyrics carried the ache of growing up and letting go. Miguel's melodies had matured, richer and more textured. Duda and Leo added rhythm and pulse, grounding every note in friendship and trust.
They renamed the band: Second Verse. A symbol of second chances.
The night of the contest, nerves buzzed under their skin. Backstage was a whirlwind of tuning pegs, whispered lyrics, and trembling fingers. But when they stepped into the spotlight, all that fell away.
Lívia looked at the crowd, then at her friends beside her. Miguel's eyes met hers. She nodded. He strummed the opening chord.
The first verse began. The audience listened.
This time, the song was complete.