From our bedroom upstairs, my husband drops something heavy on the floor, forcing my attention away from the laptop screen.
I panic, cursing my torn attention, and refresh the page. The tickets have yet to go on sale. We still have a shot. I take a breath and hit the circling arrow tab again.
It's Sunday night, the time we delegate to chores and meal prep. But while my husband is busy fulfilling our familial duties, I'm stuck on the ticket website, feeling my eyes getting drier by the minute.
I've never been able to beat the scalpers and super fans who pay monthly fees for early access. I've never been able to secure a spot in the front row, let alone the cheap seats.
Our city, so cramped and lively, is a music hub. My husband and I met at a free concert held in Grand Park, just as our parents did when they were young and energetic. It was a tale as old as time; the inevitable connection between two poor music lovers, bobbing their heads in sync to the community center orchestra.
But now we are well-worked and double-income. Getting grayer by the year, and living cozily in a small apartment with somewhat-reasonable rent. Our landlord is old, thankfully so, and therefore doesn't follow economic trends.
But still, all that goodness isn't enough. We need these tickets. We need to go beyond free concerts in the park. We need, for once, to join the elite crowd.
Our washing machine dings, a long tune to announce its completion. My husband shouts down a question, but I cannot lose focus. I apologize, and he comes downstairs to switch the load over to the dryer.
I refresh the page once more, but the screen remains unchanged. My husband passes me, in his hands is the broom we use to sweep the dust off our veranda.
"I'll help once I snag the tickets," I assure him.
He looks over his shoulder, gives me a smile, and starts pushing the yellow pollen back into the air. The sky is getting darker by the minute, and the pollen looks like moving stars over the city.
I refresh the page, and as before, nothing changes.
"Why don't you take a break? Tickets usually go on sale pretty late, anyway."
I cannot take my husband's advice. If I miss out on these tickets, we'll have to wait months for our next opportunity. I want to see a big artist. Someone whose singular name holds immense cultural weight. I want my husband and I to share a moment under the bright lights and feel small. I want us to be a part of something grand.
My husband kisses the top of my head as he returns to the hallway to finish up the laundry.
I refresh the page, and as my husband passes by with the laundry basket, the page ignites. I nearly drop the mouse as I hit the Buy Tickets Here button, flashing a manic red on the screen. I glide over and choose an available section. I have my credit card on the coffee table, waiting to be used.
But as I finish typing in our address, our passcodes, and our nonrefundable sale agreement, the screen updates once more. SORRY, the tickets you are after are no longer in stock. Due to heavy traffic, please check again later.
I slam the laptop screen down and put my head in my hands. I sit in silence; my husband must be reading in bed. I slowly march my way upstairs to the bathroom. I brush my teeth and put on my bonnet.
When I get to the bedroom, I'm exhausted and ashamed. I failed us. Again. My husband, who spent our Sunday dutifully, was left all alone while his partner sat stupidly in front of the computer.
My husband looks up from his book, smiles, and pulls back the comforter.
I crawl into bed, and I am shocked by the immense warmth of the freshly washed sheets. Our lavender fabric softener is something like incense that envelopes our skin. I slink into my husband's outstretched arms, feeling both soothed and swaddled.
"There will be other concerts," he whispers into my neck.
My muscles relax into his, and soon we are asleep.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Kera Hollow and writers in Fiction and other communities.
A Badge in the Smoke !
Dear Diary, 👋 Bye Bye David! Those were the last words Lena wrote before sliding the diary across the counter to the officials. She’d pressed the pen hard on that final line, then shut the book as if closing a door. She’d met David in the Hyatt Regency lobby during his medical conference. She was wiping the marble floor, eyes down, feeling the familiar ache of being alone in a place full of travelers. He’d asked for directions to the elevator, lingered, asked her name. Over the next three days they met in quiet corners — near the potted palms, at the service elevator — talking in low voices. He was polite, careful, always checking his watch. She felt seen, and also like she was living in the space between his words. When he left, he promised to write. They did, for a while, but the letters thinned out. Then ICE came to the hotel. Lena — whose real name was Christina Perraira — was taken across the border to Mexico. Rumors followed her: she’d escaped, she’d been taken by a cartel, a gang leader had offered her protection in exchange for favors, and she’d ended up in a trafficking case. No one could say which was true. Years passed. Christina lived under a new name, Ms. Alt, raising a child on her own. She never sent David an address. She kept the diary as proof that she had told him not to come. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone around her acted as if they knew it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained the rule; they just honored it. David never came. *Twenty-three years later, a different envelope arrived at Christina’s door.* Inside was not a letter, but a photocopy of David’s conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: “Lena: if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.” Below that, a second line in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” Christina stared at the badge. No return address, no signature. Just the badge, the two lines, and the faint imprint of a hotel key card tucked beneath it. She never said the rule out loud, but everyone who knew Lena—later Christina, later Ms. Alt—acted as if they understood it: *if you care for someone, you don’t chase them once they’ve asked you to stay away.* The hotel staff never gave David her forwarding information. The official who took her diary didn’t forward it. Even her sister, when David called from abroad, simply said, “She asked not to be found.” No one explained it; they just honored it. Christina settled in a small town across the border, working as a caregiver at St. Clare’s senior home. Her final abode was a modest room above the kitchen, with a window that looked onto the courtyard and a thin mattress she’d learned to make quickly between shifts. She kept Lena’s diary tucked under the mattress, the last page still reading “👋 bye bye David!” One rainy Thursday a new resident was admitted for terminal care: David. The name caught her breath, but she didn’t say anything. His file listed no family, only a contact number that went to voicemail. She was assigned to his floor. He was frail, his voice softer than she remembered, and he wore the same habit of checking his watch even though time meant little now. She bathed him, brought him tea, sat with him when the pain spiked. He never asked her name; she never offered it. On his third night, he slipped a folded paper into her palm while she adjusted his blanket. It was a photocopy of his old conference badge from 2003. On the back, in his handwriting: _“Lena — if you ever read this, know I never stopped looking. I didn’t come because I wasn’t free to.”Below that, in a different pen: “My wife died two winters ago.” She recognized the handwriting instantly. The paper also had a hotel key card tucked inside. She stayed with him. He opened his eyes, looked at her face, and whispered, “Lena?” She nodded, tears slipping down. He reached for her hand; she held it. A few hours later, a kettle she’d left on the small kitchenette boiled dry, the coil overheated, and a small fire started. The smoke alarm wailed. Staff rushed in, got David out, but Christina went back for the diary under her mattress. The room filled with smoke before she could get out. They died the same night—David in the hallway on a gurney, Christina in her room above the kitchen. The diary was found charred at the edges, the final page still legible. The staff filed the incident, placed the diary in the home’s lost-and-found, and followed the rule without ever naming it: they didn’t try to trace who David had been to Lena/Christina. © conceptual right , March 30th, 2026 ✍️By Madhu Goteti P.S: A rose is a rose is a rose like a rule is a rule is a rule!
By Madhu Goteti 3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.