Strings of Fate: The First Loop

chapter 36 : the ghost in the byline

-----olive augustine reyes-----

the auditorium lights dim, and the hush settles like fog. the stage lights flare. deep red, then gold.

and JAMES walks out, dressed as dracula.

a real dracula, not the cartoonish, plastic-fanged version from supermarket shelves, but something darker. elegant. commanding. he wears a velvet cape, deep maroon lining flashing with each step. his face is pale with makeup, eyes shadowed, lips tinged like he’s already fed.

but it’s the guitar strapped across his chest that catches me off guard.

he steps into the spotlight and adjusts the mic.

around me, people are already whispering.

“is that JAMES GRAY?”
“no way.”
“he plays guitar?”

they laugh softly, marveling. admiring. the same people who used to call him a delinquent. a mess. a burnout.

they cheer him on now, because that’s what people do when the tide changes. they forget their cruelty and call it hindsight. they erase their judgments and call it growth. i sit frozen between them, still as stone, my fists buried in the folds of my witch costume skirt.

they don’t know what i know.

JAMES used to be terrified of singing in front of others. he would panic even humming along to the radio in a crowded room. it was always just me. he only ever sang to me.

in my car. in his room. on my birthday that year we skipped school and drove to the lake. he called it “our secret.” he said it wasn’t ready for the world.

but now he sings for her.

he strums the first chord. his fingers tremble, barely, but he finds the rhythm.

“Betty, this one’s for you,” he announces.

and something in me drops.

not my heart. that left long ago.

something deeper.

the betrayal is not that he loves her. it's that he chose now, here, this, to make it public. that he decided his transformation into someone bold and brave would happen on this stage, in front of everyone, but not with me in the story. left me out not even in the footnotes or even the last line of the credits.

the song is upbeat but he sang it slow. honest. no costume in his voice, just raw, open-sky vulnerability. the lyrics are a reflection of him, it was his favorite song, the one i started to like and saved on my playlist after he sang it to me in his room, i know that song too well like the back of my hands. words about change, about regret, about someone who made him feel worthy again. someone who saw the good in him before he saw it himself.

and i want to scream.

because i was there.

i saw the good too. i saw it first. before the change. before the effort. before the miracle of Betty's belief. Iisaw it when it was buried under rage and rum. when no one else bothered to look.

but i wasn’t the one who made him believe it was real.

Betty was.

and now this auditorium full of people claps for him. like they always knew he had it in him. like they’ve always loved him. like they never laughed behind his back or whispered in hallways or pulled their daughters away from him like he was poison.