Sara Duckling sat on the edge of her bed, the letter from Rhodes clutched in trembling fingers.
She had read it a dozen times.
Each word carved deeper into her chest.
You are not a puzzle to be solved.
You are Sara Duckling.
Brilliant. Beautiful. Brave.
She blinked rapidly—five times fast—as if trying to clear away the weight pressing down on her lungs.
Outside, the city hummed softly, unaware of the war raging inside her heart.
She hadn't seen Rhodes since she left his studio two weeks ago.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.
And yet, he was still everywhere.
In the way her tics synced with the rhythm of passing cars.
In the way her hands twitched when she thought about his voice.
In the silence between her breaths.
Rhodes Kissinger had become more than just a man.
He had become part of her.
But trust didn't heal overnight.
And betrayal didn't vanish with a single letter.
---
The Video That Broke the Internet
That night, Sara uploaded a video.
No filters.
No makeup.
Just her.
And her tics.
She stood in front of a microphone, wearing an oversized sweater that swallowed her frame, her pale hair pulled back into a messy bun.
Behind her, a looping track played—a haunting melody built entirely from the sounds of their shared rhythms.
Her own tics layered over Rhodes' recordings.
Clicks.
Grunts.
Blinks.
Gasps.
Laughter.
Cries.
It wasn't music in the traditional sense.
But it was them .
Raw.
Real.
Unfiltered.
A duet made of chaos and connection.
She titled the video:
"White Noise (Our Broken Symphony)"
And then she hit upload.
Within minutes, it started trending.
By morning, it had gone viral.
Fans flooded the comments section.
"This is beautiful."
"I've never heard anything like this before."
"Is this what Tourette's sounds like?"
"You're not broken, Sara. You're art."
The words stung.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
And she didn't know how to feel about that.
---
The Package
Later that afternoon, there was a knock at her door.
She opened it expecting a fan, maybe a reporter.
Instead, she found a delivery driver holding a small package wrapped in white paper.
"No return address," he said, handing it over.
She took it carefully.
Closed the door.
Sat down.
Tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of music.
Handwritten.
No title.
Just notes.
She recognized the pattern instantly.
It mirrored her tics.
Her breathing.
Her pauses.
Her silences.
At the bottom of the page, in elegant cursive, was a message:
"This is for you. If you want to finish it… come find me."
—R.K.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then, slowly, she reached for her phone.
Typed out a single text.
Sent it without hesitation.
"Where?"
---
The Chapel Returns
The chapel looked the same as she remembered.
Timeless.
Still.
Sacred.
But now, it felt different.
Like it belonged to both of them.
Rhodes stood near the grand piano, waiting.
When he saw her, his breath caught.
His head jerked sideways, a tic pulling him off balance.
He steadied himself.
Didn't move closer.
Didn't speak.
Just watched.
Sara walked toward him slowly, the sheet music clutched in her hand.
They stood face to face.
Silence stretched between them.
Then, without a word, she placed the sheet music on the piano.
He glanced at it.
Looked back at her.
"You came," he said softly.
She nodded.
"I'm not here to forgive you," she warned.
He swallowed hard. "I know."
"I'm here because I needed to hear the rest of the song."
His eyes searched hers.
For pain.
For anger.
For hope.
He found all three.
"I wrote it for you," he said. "It's called Duet in Silence. "
She blinked rapidly. "Why?"
"Because we don't always need words," he said. "Sometimes, silence speaks louder than sound."
She exhaled shakily.
He sat at the piano.
She joined him on the bench.
Together, they began to play.
Their fingers danced across the keys, weaving together a melody that had been building since the moment they met.
And beneath the notes, hidden in the spaces between, were the echoes of their tics—soft, rhythmic, alive.
They weren't hiding anymore.
They were performing.
For each other.
For themselves.
For the world.
---
The Truth Between Them
After the final note faded into the vaulted ceiling, Sara turned to him.
"I don't know if I can ever fully trust you again," she admitted.
Rhodes nodded. "I understand."
"But I also know that what we have… it's real."
He looked at her, surprised.
"I don't know how to fix everything," she continued. "Or if we'll ever be okay. But I do know that I don't want to walk away—not yet."
His throat tightened.
She reached out and touched his hand.
"I'm not yours to study," she said firmly. "I'm not a case file. I'm not a subject. I'm not something to be fixed."
"I know," he whispered.
"And I'm not going to fix you either."
He smiled faintly. "Good."
She leaned in slightly. "But I will stand beside you. If you let me."
He looked at her, really looked at her.
Then, slowly, he kissed her.
Soft.
Gentle.
Full of apology.
Full of promise.
She kissed him back.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt something close to peace.
---
The New Beginning
Weeks passed.
Sara continued creating.
She released more videos, turning her tics into music, her pain into power.
She became a voice for people like them—those who lived in the margins, who fought to be understood.
Rhodes stayed by her side.
Not as a scientist.
Not as a savior.
But as someone who finally knew what it meant to be seen.
To be loved.
As they were.
Together, they recorded new compositions—music built from their shared rhythms, their shared scars.
They performed together in small venues, sometimes live, sometimes online.
People called them the "Albino Symphony."
They laughed every time they heard it.
But they kept playing.
Because for the first time in their lives…
They weren't alone.
---
The Rooftop Again
On a quiet evening, Sara and Rhodes stood on the rooftop where they had first met.
Wind whipped through their hair.
City lights twinkled below.
Sara looked at him.
"You remember the first time we met?" she asked.
He nodded. "You were about to jump."
She smirked. "You stopped me."
"I did."
She stepped closer to the ledge.
He tensed.
She looked at him.
"I'm not jumping," she said softly.
He relaxed slightly.
She turned to face the skyline.
"I'm just standing here," she said. "Looking at everything."
He joined her.
They stood in silence for a while.
Then she said, "Do you think we'll ever be normal?"
He blinked rapidly. "Define normal."
She snorted. "Yeah. That's fair."
He touched her wrist lightly. "We'll never be normal. But we'll always be real."
She smiled.
And for once, she didn't flinch from the truth.
They were real.
Imperfect.
Beautiful.
Together.