Chapter 9 - Her Encore

I watched Amahle's comeback concert from my flat.

She'd signed with a major classical label, released a solo album that debuted at number one on the classical charts. Critics called it "breathtaking" and "a revelation." She was touring with major orchestras, playing sold-out shows, living the career she'd given up for me.

And she was happy. I could see it in every interview, every performance. She glowed.

The camera panned to the audience during her encore. Themba was in the front row, watching her with undisguised adoration.

They'd been together for a year now. The media loved them — the manager who'd always loved her, the musician who'd reclaimed her life. It was a fairy tale.

I'd tried dating. Tried moving on. But every woman I met felt wrong. Too young, too shallow, too much like Palesa.

I'd fucked up the best thing in my life, and I was paying for it every single day.

My career had survived, barely. I'd replaced Amahle with a session violinist, but it wasn't the same. My new album had flopped. Venues were half-empty. The magic was gone.

I'd started therapy, trying to figure out why I'd sabotaged my marriage. Why I'd chosen momentary excitement over lasting love.

My therapist said I had intimacy issues. Fear of vulnerability. A need for external validation that stemmed from childhood trauma.

All of which was probably true. But it didn't change what I'd done. Didn't undo the hurt I'd caused.

I watched Amahle take her final bow, the audience on their feet, and felt something like acceptance settle over me.

She was better off without me. She was thriving. She was loved by someone who actually deserved her.