Tied to the Music

The bass thrummed through her rib-cage, a low snarl that made her teeth buzz, while Isaac Brock’s voice cracked and howled like a man trying to outrun something that never quite left. The guitars tangled and staggered, wild but deliberate— just like the kind of love she used to chase. The crowd moved in loose waves, jerking and swaying, everyone a little drunk, a little feral, shouting lyrics that sounded more like confessions than choruses. Juliet felt it in her throat, in her spine, the way Modest Mouse always made you feel: like you were dancing through a panic attack, laughing while something important burned behind you.

She’d promised herself she wouldn't look for him, but old habits died hard. Her eyes betrayed her, scanning the restless crowd until she found him near the stage, bathed in shifting lights. Evan hadn't changed much; the set of his shoulders was still defiant, hair still unruly, a restless energy vibrating beneath his skin. He felt her gaze and turned as if he'd known all along she'd be there.

The intensity in his storm-dark eyes, that electric shade of blue that once made her feel like the only one, stripped away the careful years they'd built apart. The memory of their turbulent love surged, raw and potent, washing through her veins. It had been passionate, volatile—too fierce to survive the quiet realities that followed. Yet, here they stood, gravity pulling them inevitably closer.

There had been nights when they screamed until their throats were raw, accusations hurled like glass, sharp and unforgiving. He once threw her record—The Lonesome Crowded West—and it shattered against the wall, vinyl shards scattering like bitter confetti across the hardwood. She’d shoved him once, hard enough to make his chest thud against the door. He’d stumbled backward, laughing that too-familiar, furious laugh—like he was feeding off the fight. Then he lunged, not in anger, but out of some raw need to be close, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in. She pushed him again, chest heaving, and they collided hard—an entangled snarl of resentment and desire.

They’d circled each other like that more than once, red-faced, breathless, a war of heat and hurt. Her hands curled in his shirt, not sure whether to hold or shove. His mouth crushed against hers mid-argument, teeth knocking, kiss all edge and apology. They'd always confused passion for proof—as if the damage could justify the depth. And afterward, bruised in places they never spoke of, they’d sat on opposite ends of the couch, silence thick with things they didn’t have the language to fix.

But there were also the quieter days. Long, late-night drives with nothing but streetlights and static between them, hands clasped tight over the center console like it was the only thing holding them together. They'd blast old albums and argue over lyrics, laugh until they cried, pull over just to chase each other around movie theaters, Juliet laughing as Evan lunged for her hoodie string or tried to steal her beanie. They'd duck under shaded corners or lean against the wall beneath the marquee lights, breathless and giddy, sharing stolen kisses as the scent of popcorn and asphalt curled around them. Like teenagers drunk on stolen time, they made even midnight pavement and flickering neon feel cinematic.

Back in their cramped apartment with its flickering kitchen light and secondhand dishes, they’d make dinner barefoot, hips bumping at the stove. They'd tumble into bed still half-clothed, making love with a kind of hunger that didn’t feel sustainable. And in the quiet afterward, they'd share stupid inside jokes, talk about future road trips they'd never take, hypothetical pets they’d never adopt, the life they kept pretending they could build. Limbs tangled, breath mingling in the dark, they'd fall asleep in the middle of conversations, only to wake up still holding hands. They had talked about everything and nothing until sunrise, kissed like the world was ending.

It had burned fast and bright, too intense to last. She remembered sobbing into the bathroom, yelling through the door, telling him to get out and never come back. And eventually—he did.

“Spitting Venom,” Evan said, his voice threading into the song just as Juliet was drifting beneath the chorus in her head. Isaac was shouting it in the background, and for a moment it was impossible to tell where Evan's voice ended and the song began. His words cut through her thoughts like an echo she hadn’t meant to answer. His smile was edged with nostalgia and regret. “Still hits hard, doesn’t it?”

Juliet nodded, throat tight. “Every time.”

She smiled faintly, quoting a lyric instead. “We've got a knack for fucked up history.”

“Still my favorite.”

His smile wavered, sadness flickering beneath. “Mine too.”

Their silence stretched, filled by lyrics they'd screamed at each other and songs they'd whispered like prayers. They had tried so hard, loving fiercely until their edges frayed, until the hurt outweighed the joy. They both understood now—love alone had never been enough. Not for the storms they weathered, not for the damage they'd done. Love was the spark, but never the shelter.

“Are you happy?” Evan asked finally, his voice shaded with a vulnerability she'd rarely heard from him.

She almost laughed. That wasn’t the kind of question you asked someone you were ready to lose again.

Juliet hesitated. “I think so. Are you?”

He shrugged lightly, eyes deepening with something unspoken. “Mostly.”

The opening chords of their favorite song echoed sharply between them, and Juliet felt her chest tighten with everything unsaid. She didn’t walk away—not yet—but she reached out once, fingers grazing his briefly, enough to remember but not enough to hold onto. Her voice was quiet, almost lost in the swell of the music. “Goodbye, Evan.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The song surged around them, a tide of sound that made the air shimmer. Her fingers hovered by his, aching to close the distance. He opened his mouth, as if to say something—to ask her to stay, to remember, to try again—but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes searched hers with a desperation stitched into silence.

“You too, Juliet,” he said finally, voice thick.

She stayed for one more verse, heart beating to the rhythm of everything they almost were. Her body felt suspended in that space—caught between memory and movement, between the pull of what once was and the certainty that some things, no matter how beautiful, couldn’t be repeated.

Then, slowly, she turned, letting the music carry her forward. She let it wash over her, drowning out regret, the bittersweet throb of memory settling deep in her bones. Evan’s gaze followed her until she vanished into the darkness—two souls tied to the music, united by it, and for one aching second, almost brave enough to bridge the space between them.

But some songs don’t end—they just fade into memory, looping in your chest long after the lights come up, daring you to believe they might play again.