November 2023. The month when Liv and Marvin stood at the crumbling edge of their relationship. In Liv's tightly packed mind, clouded by exhaustion and heavy medication, they had already broken up. Emotion no longer came naturally to her. She was detached, numb. But Marvin's possessiveness only grew stronger. He flooded her with calls—interrupting her meetings, her presentations, her moments of focus. The heat in Tapesia that November was unbearable, but not as suffocating as the weight of a love that had long since lost its way.
The first week of November was the busiest time of the year for Liv. National Education Day was approaching, and as always, she was the one leading its preparations. Meetings were scheduled, responsibilities assigned, and work never seemed to end. The entire department relied on Liv and her batchmates, the fifth-semester students. They were the backbone of the university's events, the most respected batch, admired by all. Even though the new academic year had begun in August, they had been so buried in their work that they hadn't even met the freshers—the first-semester students, or Super Juniors as they were called.
That had to change.
Determined to bridge the gap, Liv arranged a meeting with the juniors and super juniors. It was time to introduce themselves, assign tasks, and prepare for the grand event. As she organized the choir, assigning Sally as the conductor, Liv realized something—Sally wouldn't lead well. It wasn't about ability but about command. And Liv, being a natural-born singer, knew the choir needed stronger direction. So, despite her packed schedule as the MC and event coordinator, she stepped in to teach them herself.
A song was chosen by popular vote. But this particular song required an acoustic performance. Liv scanned the room and asked, "Who here can play the guitar?"
Silence. Then, hesitantly, a single hand went up. Or rather, it was pushed up by his friends.
A boy. Shy. Slender yet broad-shouldered. Chinky eyes, thin lips, and a buzz cut that framed his quiet presence. There was something tired in his gaze, something hesitant. Liv, exhausted and blunt as always, nodded. "Stay back after practice."
As the other super juniors filtered out of the room, the boy remained, awkward yet obedient. Soon, another boy, Dane, joined him for support. But Liv was too drained to pay close attention. She simply did what she did best—communicated. She knew how to talk to anyone, how to break through any silence. And so she turned to him and asked, "What's your name?"
A pause. Then, in a soft voice, he answered, "Vernon."
She didn't catch it. "What?"
Again, slower this time. "Just call me Gus."
Liv, too tired to care, simply nodded and moved on.
Three evenings of practice followed. Gus played, Liv sang. The music brought life into the chaotic preparation. And then, the day arrived.
Liv, as the host, commanded the stage with effortless grace. She called the choir up, guiding them through the performance. Then came the solo performance. As she called Gus onto the stage, a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Not because of him, but because of her. Liv couldn't stay still—she moved, she swayed, she lived within the song. And then it began.
If you miss the train I'm on, you will know that I am gone…
Liv sang, and Gus played. Their eyes met, locked in an unspoken connection that only music could create. In that moment, they weren't just performers. They were storytellers, weaving something intangible between the chords and the melody.
But in the shadows, someone watched.
Marvin. Standing at the back of the audience, frozen, staring. As if, for the first time, he saw something he couldn't unsee. As if he realized something he had been too blind to admit.
The old man from 2021, so-called "second man" had arrived.