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JUST LIKE IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to describe the power and passion they’d infused into their music while they were singing together, Katrina couldn’t describe the subtle sense of letdown that invaded the space between them when their song was done. Their notes rang out, sharp and shrill, with that tinny echo you get in a gym. It wasn’t discordant, but it certainly didn’t do justice to the music they’d just created.
Katrina was breathless, but after that sense of intimacy she’d shared with Miles only seconds earlier, it was hard to feel embarrassed. That was one thing you could say about singing compared to playing an instrument. When you relied solely on your voice, every blemish, every imperfection could only come from you. Katrina’s singing hadn’t been perfect, but it had been more real and open and powerful than any music she’d created in months.
Maybe years.
Which was why she didn’t blush but glanced at Miles expectantly. He was the teacher once more, the leader, the only one who could say or do something to summarize the experience they’d just shared.
He stared at her, standing so close she wasn’t sure if she could sense the heat in the empty space between them or if that was just her imagination. His chest rose and fell with each breath. She felt her throat constrict for a second, like an aftershock, and she didn’t try to speak.
He lifted his hand. Slowly. She couldn’t have moved even if she wanted. He reached out, so close to her cheek, then pulled back and rubbed his chin.
“That was great.” Now he was the one speaking timidly, giving no indication of the power that had poured out from him.
She wanted him to look up, wanted to sense the approval in his eyes that she’d seen just seconds earlier. She was the child in need of reassurance, the student longing for her teacher’s praise.
He cleared his throat. “You should probably rest your voice now. See you.”
And he walked out of the music room, his footsteps now the only sound in what had so recently felt like the chamber room of heaven itself.