The world didn't stop when Zane stopped talking to her — but it did feel quieter. The silence that followed their last conversation seemed to hum through the air, a melody unfinished. It was strange how something so fleeting could leave a trace that refused to fade.
Every morning, Jeanna took the same route — a 6 a.m. bus ride through the misty downtown streets. Her phone pressed against her palm, earphones tucked in, she would scroll through her playlist as if choosing a song could decide how her day would go. She told herself she didn't expect to hear his voice anymore. Yet, somehow, her thumb always hovered over that same artist's name.
And when one of his songs played — the one that once echoed through their late-night chats — she hesitated to skip it. Maybe she wanted to remember. Or maybe she was just trying to forget properly.
Zane wasn't just a singer to her. He was a stranger who had unknowingly filled the cracks of her loneliness — a quiet voice that reached her across screens and miles. They met online, through a random comment thread under a live stream. He replied to one of her messages — something simple, almost casual — but it became the start of weeks filled with conversations that felt effortless. They talked about music, life, dreams… even pain.
But the problem with distance wasn't just the miles — it was reality. Two people from different worlds, speaking different languages, living in different time zones. There were moments when they both tried — staying up late just to share silence. But it was Jeanna who began to pull back. Not because she didn't care, but because she did.
Now, two months later, she was back to her routine — a life stitched together with quiet responsibilities. Her father, Leo Sr., still worked long hours as a mechanic in a small auto shop. His hands were rough, his back slightly bent from years of labor, but he carried no bitterness. He had raised three children on his own after his wife left — a woman Jeanna barely remembered.
Her brother Leo, the eldest, was the responsible one — steady and calm, often the bridge whenever tension rose. He had dreams of starting a small repair business, saving every extra coin while pretending not to worry about their father's health. Mira, her older sister by just a year, worked at a nearby clinic. She was practical, grounded — sometimes too much so — but Jeanna knew she was that way because someone had to be.
And Jeanna, the youngest, the quiet one, was still figuring out where she belonged.
She had just graduated months ago and was taking short courses while working part-time at a design studio. It wasn't much, but it paid the bills and gave her father one less thing to worry about. Her life was simple — maybe too simple — but it was stable. Or at least it looked that way on the surface.
Behind closed doors, there were still echoes of the past — memories of a mother she never got to know, and the silent tears she once saw her father hide when he thought they were asleep. She had grown up learning that love was fragile, that people leave when things get hard. That's why when Zane came into her life, she couldn't believe someone would stay. And when he didn't, it only proved what she already knew.
One chilly afternoon, as autumn began to creep in, Jeanna sat across from Liana, her cousin and closest confidant. They were at a small café near the subway — a place they often went after class. Steam rose from their cups, curling between them like fading thoughts.
"You've been quiet lately," Liana said, stirring her coffee slowly. "Even quieter than usual. Something wrong?"
Jeanna gave a small, practiced smile. "Just tired. Work's been a bit much."
Liana tilted her head, unconvinced. "You've been staring at that same wallpaper on your phone for weeks. Don't tell me it's not about him."
Jeanna froze for half a second before looking away. "It's not like that. He's just… someone I used to talk to. It's not a big deal."
Liana leaned back, arms crossed. "Jeanna, you spent months talking to that guy. You'd smile at your screen like it held your whole world. And now you're pretending it meant nothing?"
"It had to mean nothing," Jeanna said softly. "Because it was never supposed to be something."
Silence fell between them. The café's chatter and the faint hum of the espresso machine filled the air, but Jeanna's voice lingered — small, cracked, but certain.
"I can't fall apart again," she added, almost to herself. "Not when Dad's working this hard, not when I still owe him everything. I can't keep breaking over things I can't even touch."
Liana's expression softened. She reached over and squeezed her hand. "You don't have to pretend you're fine, you know. You can be grateful and hurting at the same time. That's allowed."
Jeanna forced a laugh, blinking back tears she refused to let fall. "Yeah, well… I'm still learning that."
When she returned home that night, the house was quiet — the kind of silence that felt heavy but familiar. Her father had already gone to bed, Mira was watching something on her tablet, and Leo was fixing an old radio in the corner of the living room.
She went straight to her room, dropped her bag, and sat by the window. Outside, the streetlights flickered faintly. She took out her sketchbook, one she hadn't touched in months, and flipped through the worn pages filled with unfinished drawings. Her hand hesitated at first, then moved — tracing lines that turned into shapes, shapes that turned into something soft and meaningful.
Her phone buzzed once — a new post from Zane's music page. She stared at it for a while, the image blurry through her tired eyes, before locking the screen again. For once, she didn't feel the urge to open it.
Instead, she looked at her sketch. It wasn't perfect — far from it — but it was hers.
Maybe, she thought, some songs aren't meant to last forever. Maybe they just come to remind us that even after the music fades, we still have our own rhythm to find.
And that night, for the first time in a long while, Jeanna fell asleep not to his songs — but to the sound of her own quiet breathing, steady and at peace.