Sofia and Niki

Sofia:

“Ms. Warners?” I hear the stage manager, Caroline, call through the open door of my dressing room. “They’re ready for you.”

I look in the mirror, checking myself one last time. I apply one more coat of cherry red lip gloss.

“Thank you,” I respond as I stand up.

The walk to the stage feels a million miles long. I turn down the concrete hallway to the set of stairs, admiring the walls covered in names of artists that have been here before me.

“You’re guitar, Ma’am,” A crew member says to me, handing over my red Fender Stratocaster. I smile and take it from his hands, throwing the strap over my shoulder.

“You’re up,” Caroline says from behind me. I take three deep breaths and walk onstage.

“What’s up Brooklyn!!” I shout into my microphone. Instinctually, my hands strum the opening G chord of Fast Times.

Niki:

I feel an ache in my heart as Sofia walks on stage. I should be watching from backstage. I want nothing more than to go back to Seattle and take back what I said. It’s incredible how two letters can ruin something that was so strong. One syllable knocked down the entire foundation that we had been building for the past 6 years.

She looks as beautiful as ever, in a white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of red pants. Her hair has grown since I last saw her, now nearly reaching her collarbone. It’s lighter too, the dark brown in my memory now being replaced with a strawberry blonde. It suits her, I think.

Her voice booms through the speakers as she sings the first line of Fast Times. It’s her only song that I haven’t heard before it's release. Her first song since we ended.

That day had been particularly bad. It was as if the universe wanted me to miss her. Her songs were playing in nearly every store I was in running errands. Blame was blasting in Target,

Heartstrings in the grocery store, and worst of all, Nick of Time in the coffee shop where I was trying to have a rebound date.

At 12:00 exactly, I pulled up Spotify. A message pops up. “New music from your top artist: Sofia Warners.” Of course she’s still my top artist. I just can’t escape her.

Please be sad. Please be sad, I internally plead as I click play.

The melody comes resonating through my shitty phone speaker. It’s upbeat and fun and I am crushed. The lyrics don’t help either.

“I don’t have any space

For things that can be replaced

All I wanna do is be free”

Well fuck.

Sofia:

“Alright everybody,” I say into the crowd trying to calm them down. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to slow it down for this next one.” I was hesitant about doing this, but it only seemed right to play it here. Where everything started.

“This next song is called Green Lights. I wrote it with someone who was very special to me at the time. It’s about making the most of your time together and never wanting it to end.” I walk to the side of the stage and trade out my electric guitar for an acoustic.

Niki isn’t creative. She doesn’t write, sing, draw, or anything. She’s incredibly smart but artistic talent is not her thing. When we wrote Green Lights, neither of us had set out to write a song together. It just kind of happened.

We were driving to her parent’s house in Westchester. We hit standstill traffic halfway through, turning our hour and a half ride into nearly four. We passed the time by playing different road trip games, belting songs at the top of our lungs, and fantasizing about our future. Before we knew it, we were almost there.

As we pulled into suburbia, Niki looked over at me from the passenger's seat.

“What?”

“Is it weird that I don’t want this car ride to end? I mean we were stuck in traffic for hours but now I just wanna be with you in this car forever.”

I smiled and said, “Maybe we’ll miss all the green lights.”

Niki:

My eyes fill with tears and she sits down with her acoustic guitar at the end of the stage. She was playing our song. The song we wrote together in 20 minutes pulled over on the side of the street.

I always loved watching Sofia write. I loved how her eyes would light up when a new line came to mind or how she would hold her pencil in her mouth as she strummed, trying to figure out the right cadence.

This song was different though. We were in a car. She didn’t have any guitar to play.

I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a napkin and an old pen. Sofia shot me a look.

“Well?” I said after a minute.

“Well, what?”

“Are you gonna make that a song or not?”

Before we knew it, we had a chorus:

“I don’t ever want this time to end

I wish that we could make the minutes bend

And stop the whole world for just tonight

Maybe we’ll miss all the green lights”

Now here she was, singing those lyrics on stage with her eyes closed. The venue is lit with soft green lights and the crowd is virtually silent, except for a few beautiful whispers of people singing along.

“Alright everyone,” She says as she continues to play the chord progression. “I want you all to join me on this last chorus. Listen to these words. This is exactly how I feel about all of you.” She went through the chord progression one more time and then started to sing. The entire crowd starts singing as I run out of the venue, my eyes blurry with tears.

Sofia:

“Thank you, Brooklyn! You guys have been such an incredible audience. I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. Get home safe and I love you!!”

I pass people on the way back to the dressing room, all of them mumbling things like “great show!” and “nice job!”. I force smiles out to each of them until I’m safely alone behind my dressing room door. Despite having thousands of people chanting my name minutes before, I have never been so lonely. All I want to do is go home to Niki and fall asleep in her arms.

I hear a knock on the door, accompanied by someone saying “It’s me!” from the other side.

“Come in, Jess,” I call back to my manager.

“Amazing show! I think that was your best show yet.”

“Thanks! It felt really good.”

“Take a few to decompress and then come out through the stage door. There are some people wanting to say hi,” she says before leaving.

I change out of my concert outfit, slipping on a pair of sweats and a tee-shirt.

I check my phone to see many messages from friends and family, who had come to see the show in our hometown. I go through each message one by one, replying “thanks!” over and over again until one message from my friend catches my eye.

“Niki was here.”