When the Music Stopped

When the Music Stopped

Sometimes silence says what music never could.

I was ten years old the first time I heard her sing.

Her voice drifted from the small yellow house next to ours every evening, soft like wind through leaves. At first, I thought it was a radio. But one day, I peeked through the fence and saw her—long black hair tied in a bun, eyes closed, singing with her hands dancing in the air like she was painting the sky.

Her name was Maya.

She had moved in with her grandmother that summer, and from that moment, our quiet neighborhood began to change. The sound of her music brought life to our dull street. Kids stopped to listen. Adults smiled more. Even the birds seemed to join in.

I was shy back then. Skinny, quiet, always holding a book. But something about her voice made me bold.

“Hi,” I said one day, standing awkwardly on her porch.

She smiled like the sun had touched her lips. “Hi, book boy.”

From then on, we were friends.

We played music together—she would sing, and I would tap rhythms on old pots and pans. She laughed at my silly beats. I loved her laugh. It was louder than her singing, fuller than any song.

Years passed. Our friendship grew deeper. She became my safe place, my light, my music.

By high school, Maya wasn’t just the girl next door—she was the girl everyone talked about. She sang at every school event, won every talent show. But fame never changed her. She still came to my room late at night to cry when things felt too heavy. She still called me “book boy.”

And I? I loved her. Quietly. Silently. Like a secret song only I could hear.

But I never told her.

One rainy day, Maya got the letter—a music scholarship in New York. Her dream.

I hugged her tight. I didn’t cry. I told her she’d shine.

She smiled, but her eyes looked like rain. “You’ll write to me?”

“Every day,” I promised.

And I did. For months, we wrote letters, shared songs, stories, dreams.

But then... she stopped writing.

I waited.

A week. A month. Three.

Her silence was loud.

I told myself she was just busy, living her dream. But deep inside, a crack had started.

Two years passed. No letters. No calls. No music from that yellow house.

I finished college, got a job at a small bookstore. Life moved, slowly, painfully.

Until one winter morning, I got a letter.

Not from Maya—from her grandmother.

“Maya’s coming home.”

My heart beat faster than ever before.

But when I saw her, I didn’t recognize the girl I once knew.

She looked the same—but her eyes… they were different. Dim. Tired.

We sat on the porch, just like old times. But she didn’t smile. She didn’t sing.

“Why did you stop writing?” I finally asked.

She looked away. “Because I failed.”

“What do you mean?”

She whispered, “I lost my voice.”

She told me how the pressure in New York was too much. The competition, the loneliness. She started having panic attacks. Her voice began cracking. Doctors said it was stress. She stopped performing. Stopped singing. One day, she opened her mouth—and nothing came out.

“I was scared,” she said. “Ashamed. I thought I was broken.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I held her hand.

For weeks, she stayed home. Quiet. Her guitar gathered dust. Her piano sat untouched.

Then one evening, I placed a small drum in front of her.

She looked at me.

“I’m still your drummer,” I said. “Wanna make some noise?”

She smiled.

A small smile. But it was a start.

We began again. Slowly.

She hummed. I tapped. She laughed. I cried.

One day, as the sun set, she sang. Just a few notes.

Soft. Cracked. Fragile.

But it was her.

The music had returned.

And so had she.

Now, every evening, our street hears music again—not perfect, not loud, but real.

I still tap on pots. She still calls me “book boy.”

And one night, under the stars, she held my face and said, “Thank you… for waiting.”

I kissed her. Finally. And it felt like every silent song I had ever kept inside was singing out loud.

________________________________________

Some songs never leave us.

Even when the music stops… love stays.