The city was still asleep, a haze of grey and soft gold filtering through the windows of Zara’s apartment. It was the morning of the finale. The final morning.
Lyra sat on the edge of the sofa, a blanket draped over her shoulders, feeling the quiet weight of the day settle around her.
Zara knelt before her, the cool disc of a stethoscope pressed gently against Lyra’s belly. She wasn’t just a friend this morning; she was Dr. Ali, her expression focused, her movements precise. She listened, her eyes closed for a long moment, before nodding.
“Heartbeat is strong,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “Yours is a little fast, but that’s to be expected.”
She looked up, her gaze meeting Lyra’s. “Breathe. Just breathe. Remember what we talked about. No song, no competition, no trophy is more important than the two of you.”
Lyra placed a hand over Zara’s. “I know.” And she did. The thought was a steadying anchor in the churning sea of her nerves.
Later, they sat with coffee, the silence between them comfortable. It had been months since Lyra had arrived on this doorstep, a ghost of herself, shattered into pieces too small to count.
“It’s absurd, isn’t it?” Zara said, swirling the dark liquid in her mug. “Everything that’s happened. Sometimes I still can’t believe it.”
Lyra managed a small smile. “Absurd is one word for it.”
“I’m so proud of you, Lyra.” Zara’s voice was thick with emotion. “Not for the show, or the votes, or any of that. For the woman you’ve become. The woman you were always meant to be.”
The words settled in Lyra’s chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee. She reached for the notebook on the small table beside her, flipping it open to a page of handwritten lyrics. The song was titled “My Name.”
Her eyes scanned the verses, the story of her own undoing and rebuilding. She found the line she’d been wrestling with, a simple phrase near the end. With a pen, she crossed out the old words.
She didn’t just survive. She created.
She wrote the new line, her handwriting clear and firm. It was finished. It was ready. She closed the notebook, a sense of profound peace washing over her. She was no longer a survivor caught in a storm. She was an artist, stepping into the light with a purpose that was entirely her own.
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