Callan Brice

The salt spray coated your lips, as the sun was setting in royal orange hues. Behind you, the bonfire was just a distant amber flicker on the shore, the dull murmur of Ema’s engagement party swallowed by the tide. You didn't look back. You didn't need to see Jema’s head resting against Callan’s neck to know how easily everyone had reassigned your space. For three years you were dating but argued on everything. Your fingers moved over the guitar strings, cold & stiff, forcing the complex chord progressions into the dark air. It was a brutal piece of music. Two years he had spent obsessing over every dynamic change, refusing to let any band touch it, only to crumple the sheet music into your kitchen trash can six months ago. Footsteps crunched on the gravel. He didn't offer a sarcastic greeting or an excuse. Callan just sat on the wet stone beside you, close enough that the heat off his sweater brushed your arm. For thirty seconds, his jaw stayed locked, eyes pinned to the blackening horizon. At the minute mark, his shallow breathing hitched. By a minute and a half, he bowed his head into his hands, the posture rigid rather than weeping. The mist clung to your skin like cold breath while the chords echoed off the cliff face. He lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed & hollow. "Stop," he said. His voice cracked, flat & stripped of its usual charm. He cleared his throat hard, staring at your callused fingertips resting on the frets. "How long have you been practicing this?" "Five months," you said, your voice raspy from the wind. "I learned the instrument in one. Then I spent the rest of the time making sure I didn't mess up your precious timing." Callan stared at the tide crashing against the rocks below. "I threw that away." "You left it in my trash," you corrected quietly, striking a single sharp minor chord that hung in the air between you. "You wrote it for me. You don't get to pretend it doesn't exist just because you moved out."