Duet

We sang our duet at karaoke. Neither of us looked at the screen once.

It was Priya's birthday. Twenty-three. A private room, cheap cocktails, a mic that crackled like a dying radio. I didn't want to go. But I did. Because she's my friend, and because I hate being the girl who disappears.

I didn't know he'd be there. His name was Ben. Mutual friend. Priya's cousin's flatmate. Because the universe is a bully.

He hadn't seen me. I was in the corner, sipping a sad vodka, until someone shouted, "Next up, a duet! Who's brave?"

A hand shot up. His. And then, to the horror of every cell in my body, Priya pointed straight at me.

"Don't," I whispered.

"Come on!" she yelled. "You two love this one!"

She had no idea. Or maybe she did.

The song started. One we'd sung in his car, in the rain, with the windows down. One we'd sung in the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. A hundred different times.

I stood next to him, the mic shaking in my hand. The screen scrolled the words in bright, bouncing colours.

Neither of us looked at it.

We sang every single word. Perfectly. Not a hesitation. We turned to each other, eyes locked, singing something we'd never needed to read.

The room clapped. Cheered. I barely heard it.

Because that's when I knew.

You can lose the person.

You can't lose the lyrics.