The Song I Didn’t Sing
That night, the room was loud with borrowed tunes, voices cracking over someone else’s words. You held the mic, half-smiling, off-key, brave— while I refused, too sure there’d be more time. A month later, silence. No last chorus, no drunken vow belted into static. Just the echo of a laugh I didn’t join, a door I didn’t know was closing then. Maybe I should’ve grabbed the mic, should’ve sung something sad and true— something that would’ve made you turn, something to say I see the end coming too. Or maybe I should’ve stayed home, let the party spin on without me, so now I wouldn’t have to untangle which part was the beginning of the end, and which part was just a Tuesday.