Sweet Romance13 min read
He Called My Name on Stage
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I never thought a song could follow me like a scent.
"I told you his new single is a diss," my friend Kenzie Brooks typed, impatient and small-caps on my phone screen.
"People write songs about breakups all the time," I answered, thumb hovering, not sure whether to argue.
"You left him. He left songs. That's a problem," she fired back.
"I didn't leave him to make him a target," I wrote, then deleted it. "I left because I wanted him to chase a dream."
"Of course you did," she said. "You always give people the room to be more than they are."
I closed the messages and opened the music app instead. The top track had Wyatt Benson's name in bold.
I left a casual comment under the song: "Did the songwriter get cheated on? Tone is very passive-aggressive."
Two days later the song had gone viral, and my comment had 68,000 likes.
"There's a comment from 'Louise'—" Kenzie said, pointing at my screen.
"You... commented?" My editor's voice came through the headset before I could hide the phone. "Louise, don't get distracted. We have a live panel in twenty minutes."
"Right." I shoved the phone into my bag and practiced the neutral face of someone who had no connection to the late-night internet drama.
I dreamt that night.
Wyatt sat on a cold street curb with a battered guitar. I sat beside him eating a bowl of spicy snail noodles, my cheeks full and hot.
"Good?" he asked.
"Delicious," I said and smiled like an idiot.
He put the guitar down and pinched my cheek.
"You know that smell scares people away," he teased.
"Does it?"
"Mm."
I finished the bowl, rose, and started towards the wall to eat the rest alone, humming.
"Come back here," he said.
"Back to you? Not happening."
The sky darkened. The guitar in his hands turned into my old suitcase.
"You're not coming back, are you?" he said, but his face had lost the soft humor.
"No," I said. "Not coming. Go do your show. Maybe you'll go famous."
He refused to let go of the suitcase. "Is fame the only thing that matters to you?"
"You think it isn't?"
He looked at me like I had always been in his life only to be the antagonist—sharp and practiced.
I woke up with my pillow damp and my phone buzzing.
"Someone replied to your comment," the notification said.
I put my head under the blanket.
1
Wyatt left for the city three months after the show I remembered. He went to an audition, then another. When the reality selection show took off, posters started popping up even in our small county.
I was standing by a street stall eating a sesame pancake when I saw Wyatt's giant poster. He wore a simple black shirt and stood center-stage in the photo, a spotlight making him look like something carved.
The pancake slipped from my fingers and rolled onto the pavement. I barely managed to gather myself as two schoolgirls near me shrieked.
"Did you see last night's episode?" one whispered. "Wyatt is so unreal."
"He sang the song and—oh my god—his hand when he held the mic was so—"
"He's the destined star of 2023," the other declared.
They didn't say "famous" directly, but I knew he had reached a real kind of fame.
On the bus back, one of them noticed my phone and asked, bright as a bell, "Auntie, do you like Wyatt too?"
Like.
If it were a small like, that would be easy to answer. I smiled and said, "I guess."
2
A year later Wyatt was everywhere. I moved cities twice for work. I thought becoming an entertainment reporter would let me stay close if Wyatt stayed in the industry. Silly thought.
On the night of the final episode, I sat in the audience. A friend texted, "Isn't that your ex on TV?" I replied "No, same name."
When Wyatt finished singing, I stood up and slipped away.
"Wait," someone called.
He held the mic like he was speaking to me. "Wait, whether I win or not, I hope my fans find happiness," he said into the roar.
I left thinking maybe I had read too much into it.
3
Weeks later his song topped charts. My casual comment under that song had been re-posted and dissected. The creators even responded: "Not cheated on. Wrote it to provoke."
"To provoke?" I muttered.
"That's kind of ridiculous," Kenzie said, laughing on the phone. "He says he put you there to make you furious."
"Ridiculous," I said again.
4
Then came the interview where I had to cover Wyatt.
"I can't do this," I told myself as my heels clicked down the studio hall.
"Can you cover it?" my colleague Kayla Colon had messaged earlier, in panic. "I have an emergency."
"Who is 'cy'?" I asked, half joking.
"Wyatt," Kayla replied. "You know that. Please, just go."
Of course I went. I had the professionalism of someone who knew the work mattered, not the heart.
When I entered the green room he was there, calm and measured as ever. He was closer than I expected—barely half a meter between us. I could make out a mole under his lower eyelid. It was painfully familiar.
"Don't pretend you don't know me, Louise," he said, but with the same cool air we had always used on each other.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Why can't I be the one who tells the story?" he teased. "Why can't I be the one you write a nice line about?"
"You think you're owed nice lines?"
He smiled, the kind of smile that had once broken me and made me continue. "Maybe."
5
The interview started warm. He was the perfect guest: polite, articulate, fun. I relaxed.
"What's the inspiration for your latest song?" I asked.
"For an ex," he said.
My chest tightened. The room seemed to dim.
"The song's gotten a lot of traction," I continued. "Any idea why it's connecting?"
He looked at me like I was a small puzzle. "Maybe because she commented," he said, casually. "She shouldn't take it so seriously."
I felt my bones go cold.
"I didn't mean—" I started.
"I know," he interrupted, smiling. "You left. It's all fine."
The rest of the interview felt like someone rearranging my memory into a stranger's room.
Afterwards I asked him, "Are you sick in the head?"
"Now are you going to stop pretending we don't know each other?" he asked, then laughed.
"You're petty," I said.
"Well, who's the one who listened to my songs on repeat?" he countered. "Who looped my lines like it was a personal playlist?"
I realized with a stab of embarrassment that the account he'd mentioned belonged to me. In the breakup blur I had never changed our shared accounts. I hadn't even noticed he'd kept the music subscription active.
"You paid for my subscription?" I demanded.
"Yes," he said. "I renewed the membership for the next ten years."
"You what?" I wasn't sure whether to be insulted or thankful.
"You can return it," he shrugged. "But don't delete me until you settle accounts."
"I will transfer the money," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
He slid a QR code across the table. "Add me back on WeChat," he said, smiling like a man with a secret.
6
We didn't speak for three days.
Then his name showed up in my contacts. He sent, "You owe me nothing. Just keep me in your friend list."
I wrote back, "Your friend list is not charity."
His reply was a single line: "I'll be there. Always here."
I stared at those two words and deleted them.
I couldn't help checking his social feed. Fans were already calling me "sister-in-law"—a silly kind of affection. In comments people wrote, "Sister-in-law listens the most to his songs."
A top comment read, "Even if we never meet, the lyrics are all about her."
People wove our story like a new myth. No one knew the real reason we separated: I thought I was saving him from a life with me.
7
There were chances to help him, or so I convinced myself. Once I heard he might cancel a performance for stomach problems and rushed to buy medicine. I bought a box of his usual pills and ran to the venue, imagining him pale and weak backstage.
"You really went to all that trouble?" he asked, when he saw me sitting on a curb with the plastic bag. He'd been on the stage the whole time, of course, healthy and singing.
"I thought you were sick," I said, chastened.
He took the medicine from me and looked at the bag like it was a relic.
"Why did you do that?" he asked.
"Because you once had bad stomach pains," I said.
He studied me. "We used to fight about everything," he admitted. "We even argued about which store to eat at."
"Because you never liked sweet shops," I said.
He smiled. "And you hated coffee."
We walked side by side for a while, and for the first time in a long time we talked like regular people. At one point he asked, "Did you make this job to be near me?"
"No," I lied. "I just passed the audition."
But the truth sat heavy in my throat.
"Why did you leave me?" he asked suddenly.
"Because I didn't see a future," I said. "Because I thought you cared more about the lights than us."
He let the silence sit. "Do you ever regret it?"
"No."
8
I don't know why I left. For pride, yes. For a desire to not be a weight. For the foolish hope that making him go farther would be easier without me. It was cowardice dressed up as sacrifice.
We met again only in accidental ways: on TV, at events, once in a cinema, once on a winter street.
The cinema is the memory that hurt the most. I walked in for a cheap ticket and ended up watching a saccharine movie called How to Get Back with an Ex.
"Don't hide when you see your ex," the screen told the heroine.
I thought of how often I'd dodged, how many times I'd pretended I didn't know him. After the movie I walked to the old corner where we used to sit with the guitar and ate spicy noodles. Snow was falling in soft threads.
Then he appeared at the corner with a cap and a scarf, surprise in both our faces.
"You still miss me?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"What?" he asked.
The snow landed on my lashes.
"Nothing," he said, and his mouth curved like memory. "Are you home for the holidays?"
I said yes. "What about you?"
"Here too," he answered.
We walked together, awkwardly. He asked my plans for the coming year. I told him the usual safe things: new job, maybe marriage someday.
"You promised to hold a concert for me when you get famous," I said lightly.
"I will," he said, and it sounded like a vow he hadn't had the chance to speak.
We left each other with a sunset I recognized from our youth, the same warm shade.
9
The final scene came at his concert, months later. My desk mate handed me a ticket on my last day at the office like a small dare.
"Go listen," Kenzie said. "You might be surprised."
I kept telling myself I wouldn't go. I ended up sitting in the crowd because I had paid and because I wanted to know what his songs would sound like live.
The lights dimmed. The roar climbed. When Wyatt sang, he looked like a person who had carved himself out of noise and grit. He sang about young years and mistakes and people who gave him music.
During the last song he sang a line: "Those who like each other will meet again, right?"
I felt a pull and stood up. People around me cheered. He paused at the next line as if hearing something only he could hear.
He said my name.
"Louis— Louise?" my inner voice whispered, and then the stage lights found me and the screen lit up with my face and my name.
I almost collapsed.
The show blurred around me. Girls near me clutched each other and squealed, "Look, she is here! The sister-in-law!"
Wyatt walked down the aisle toward the stage exits, then stopped. He appeared at my side like a man finishing a long sentence.
"Did you ask if I forgave you?" he asked.
"Did you forgive me?" I answered back with a question.
"I thought you were unforgivable," he said without irony. "But seeing you tonight, I changed my mind."
The crowd held its breath. He looked at me with an honesty that made every rumor vanish.
"Turn around," he said.
My knees trembled. I turned.
"Come back to me," he told me, into the bright microphone and more for my ears.
I cried without shame. My cheeks were wet and people cheered, thinking this was what they'd paid for: the reunion of two wounded stars.
"You always knew how to ruin a subtle mood," I told him, laughing through tears.
"I always liked how dramatic you were," he replied.
10
We tried again.
Social media spun stories and headlines. My inbox flooded with congratulatory notes and snide messages. The world loves a reunion. The world loves a story that heals itself.
We dated in public and in private. He still left little things in the accounts we shared. He still paid for my subscriptions, even when I insisted on sharing the bill. He would sit with me on cold nights and hold my hand like it was both a question and an answer.
There were moments when he was gentle—the way he would stand and let me take his sweater. There were moments when he was sweetly absurd—he left a note taped to my front door that said, "Ten years of membership and a lifetime of apologies."
There were moments when he hurt. Old habits die slowly. He would test me with a lyric and smile when I flinched. He would write a song that sliced in places I didn't expect. But he would always follow the sting with the honest work of making it right.
"Do you still think I only write for fame?" he asked late one night as we lay awake.
"Sometimes," I admitted.
"But it all comes back to you," he said. "Not because I need you to be my muse, but because you were the first one to tolerate my worst."
I laughed until I cried.
11
The story that people kept telling was one of two stubborn kids who grew up. They liked the sound of that as a fairy tale. They liked the idea that we had hurt each other on purpose to help each other rise.
But the truth was less tidy.
We argued about small things: whose name should be first on the lease, whose playlist should get priority on long drives.
We argued about what meant "support." He thought supporting someone meant giving money, trips, stage lights. I thought it meant seeing the person at home when they were tired, the slow gestures of day-to-day.
"So what is honest support?" I asked him, one afternoon in the apartment we moved into.
"Being there when you need me before you ask," he said, "and letting you go when you want to be alone."
"And if I need that alone permanently?" I asked, probing.
"Then I pretend to be a good ex," he said, then kissed my forehead.
We kept learning to give each other space and to celebrate each other's music without making it a competition.
12
Once, during a sharp winter, a vindictive tabloid tried to turn one of Wyatt's songs into a fresh scandal. They claimed he had written a cruel verse about me and invented quotes. Fans grabbed torches.
I didn't want that noise. I went to the press room.
"Is this true?" a reporter demanded, letting the accusation pin us like a moth.
"No," I said. "He wrote reckless lines; he wrote them without a net. But he never wanted me to be hurt."
Wyatt stepped forward.
"She knew from the beginning I was messy," he said, voice steady. "If anyone thinks I did this to ruin her, come say that to her face."
One editor snapped a picture. Another reporter crowded with a microphone.
"You provoked her," someone shouted.
"I provoked myself," Wyatt answered. "We both did things we regret."
The crowd watched as two people pulled their history into daylight. The tabloids fussed and then moved on. The more important thing was that people watched us choose to meet in the middle again.
13
There were quiet victories: the way he would make tea exactly the way I liked it, the way I would remind him of the lines in his songs that made him smile.
There were louder, sillier moments: he bought me a ridiculous sweater with a snail noodle bowl stitched on the chest because he remembered a photo in my phone.
"Why a snail?" I asked.
"Because you once ate an entire bowl in the snow," he said. "And because now everything that smells like that makes me think of you."
I threw a pillow at him.
"Promise me something," he said one evening.
"I'm allergic to promises," I shot back.
"Promise me you'll stay when it gets hard," he answered.
"I won't promise to stay forever," I said. "But I will promise to try hard whenever I see you trying."
He let the sentence sink in like weight.
14
The world can be loud when it wants to be. It had called our story every name. It had celebrated us, then tried to pick us apart. We learned how to hold our own private conversations inside public pages.
At a charity concert Wyatt was to headline, I saw a crowded room of people singing his words back to him. He cupped a microphone and looked toward me.
"Thanks for coming," he said, and I was surprised by the sincerity.
"You're welcome," I whispered.
After the show he walked me to the stage door. Around us fans chattered and camera lights popped like little fireflies.
"Do you ever resent me for this?" he asked, holding my hand as if it were fragile.
"Sometimes," I admitted.
"I resent myself sometimes more," he said. "Because I could have done better."
We stood in the cold, breathing each other's names. It did not feel grand. It felt like home.
15
Someone once told me that songs are like rooms in a house: you live in one and leave the other doors shut until you choose to open them again.
Wyatt's songs had been a row of rooms. Some were loud and crowded and messy. Others were quiet and tender, with small things on the table: a ten-year subscription, a taped-up note, a bowl of noodles.
Years passed and we smoothed our edges with each other.
At night I would sometimes listen to the old tracks we had written in fits of anger and remember the person who had written them. Sometimes I would call and he would answer plainly, without the singer's practice: "Lou."
"Stop," I would say. "You sound like my old boyfriend."
"And?" he'd tease.
"And you can be more," I'd say. "But you already have been."
We learned to treat each other with a kind of careful affection I didn't have words for at twenty-three.
16
One night in spring we walked past the corner where he had first asked me why I was running after a dream. The little noodle shop had closed. The wall where we had once sat had a new mural.
"Do you ever regret the way we did things?" he asked.
"I regret what was cruel," I said. "But not the idea of wanting more for you."
He squeezed my hand. "I wanted to be more for you."
"Are you?" I asked.
He tilted his head and the streetlight made him look like he belonged to that sharper adult life he had built.
"I try," he said.
He used to be a boy with a guitar and a tendency for drama. Now he was a man who would still renew my accounts and still write songs for no reason but the truth.
"Do you remember the line you changed before the concert?" I asked, the one he said into the mic which I had thought was only for show.
He smiled. "I wrote it the night before."
"Why?"
"Because I woke up and the room felt empty without a name to fill it."
"Mine?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Yours."
I leaned into him.
We did not promise fairy-tale endings. We promised small, real things: a text in the morning, a cup of tea, an argument and the work to come back.
17
Sometimes people will ask me if I think we were made for each other.
"I don't know," I tell them. "We were made to get through the hard parts together, sometimes."
They nod like this is an adequate answer.
But since that concert, since he called my name and the lights found me, there is an extra layer to our days. People still like to tell the story the way it makes them feel better: boy loses girl, boy becomes big star, boy calls the girl's name and everything is fixed.
But what fixed things was not a stage or a lyric. It was small acts over and over—not grand gestures but daily choices: he paid for a membership, yes, but he also learned to sit through my bad moods. I left to make him a better man, but he chose to meet me again as an equal.
One afternoon I found an old note in his jacket pocket. It said, in messy handwriting, "Ten years of listening doesn't repay one heart."
I laughed, then cried.
"That's the stupidest line you've ever written," I told him when I showed the note.
"Maybe it's the truest," he said.
We walked home, content with an imperfect quiet. He hummed a new melody that didn't have to hurt anyone.
"Sing it," I said.
He sang, and the kitchen filled with small bright notes.
We kept learning.
I keep the membership active now. Not because I need songs to remember him, but because music is how he teaches me to live loudly and softly in the same breath.
When he calls me suddenly in the middle of a meeting with a single word—"Louise"—I answer because I have learned that names can be anchors.
We have a life stitched with ordinary things: a bowl of snail noodles on a snow night, a sweater with a noodle embroidered on the chest, a taped ten-year membership note on the refrigerator.
If someone asks whether I'm glad I left him, I would say: leaving made us find ourselves; coming back made us find each other.
And when I hear him sing live, he still says my name sometimes, not for the spectacle but as if he has chosen, again and again, to call me home.
The End
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