The city was quieter than usual.
Not because it had changed—but because Sara Duckling had.
She sat on the floor of her studio, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of her, fingers twitching restlessly beside her hips.
Her tics had been worse all morning.
A sharp head jerk every few seconds.
A sudden grunt that startled even her.
Five rapid eye blinks followed by an involuntary shoulder shrug.
She didn't try to hide them anymore.
Didn't flinch when they came.
Didn't apologize for being herself.
She just let them happen.
Let them be.
Because she had learned something important over the past year:
Silence wasn't always peace.
Sometimes, silence was fear.
And sometimes—like now—it was the space between heartbeats before music began again.
---
A Year Later
Exactly one year ago, she had stood on a rooftop with Rhodes Kissinger, staring down at the city below, unsure if she wanted to fall or fly.
Now, she stood on the same rooftop, wind whipping through her hair, but this time, she wasn't alone.
Rhodes was beside her.
Taller than she remembered.
Thinner.
Quieter.
Still beautiful.
Still broken.
Still hers.
They hadn't spoken much since arriving.
There was no need.
They understood each other in ways words couldn't capture.
In rhythms.
In pauses.
In silence.
He turned to her, eyes soft.
"You ready?" he asked.
She blinked rapidly—five times fast—then nodded.
"Yeah."
Together, they walked back inside.
Back to the studio.
Back to the music.
---
The Unfinished Symphony
Inside the studio, everything was exactly as they had left it.
Sheet music scattered across the piano.
Microphones standing like silent sentinels.
Headphones resting on the mixing board.
But there was one thing missing.
The final piece.
Their duet.
Duet in Silence.
It had started as a melody written in secret.
Built from their shared tics.
From their chaos.
From their connection.
And yet, it had never truly ended.
There was still something missing.
Something unspoken.
Sara had tried finishing it on her own.
She had played it backward.
Forward.
Slowed it down.
Sped it up.
But nothing felt right.
Until now.
Rhodes sat at the piano first.
She joined him on the bench.
Their fingers hovered above the keys.
Then, without speaking, they began to play.
Notes filled the room.
Soft.
Gentle.
Familiar.
But beneath the melody were the echoes of their tics—subtle, rhythmic, alive.
A hiccup here.
A blink there.
A breath held too long.
A pause too deep.
They weren't hiding anymore.
They were performing.
For themselves.
For each other.
For the world.
---
The Music Within
Halfway through the piece, Rhodes stopped playing.
His hands trembled slightly.
His head jerked sideways, a tic pulling his neck sharply before he steadied himself.
Sara looked at him.
"You okay?" she asked gently.
He exhaled slowly. "Yeah."
She frowned. "You're lying."
He smiled faintly. "I know."
She reached out and touched his hand.
He laced his fingers with hers.
"I've been thinking," he said after a moment.
She blinked rapidly. "That's dangerous."
He chuckled softly. "About us. About what we've built."
She tilted her head. "What about it?"
He hesitated. "We've come so far. But I don't think we're done growing."
She studied him. "You mean changing."
He nodded. "Yes."
She swallowed hard. "I'm scared of that."
He met her gaze. "Me too."
She blinked again—slowly this time.
"Change doesn't mean losing who we are," she whispered. "Does it?"
"No," he said firmly. "It means finding new ways to love ourselves."
She let out a shaky breath. "That sounds exhausting."
He smirked. "It is."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Then why do it?"
He kissed the top of her head. "Because we deserve more than survival. We deserve joy."
She closed her eyes. "Even if it's messy?"
"Especially if it's messy."
She laughed softly—half a hiccup, half a sigh.
Then she sat up straighter.
"We should finish the song."
He nodded. "Together."
They placed their hands back on the keys.
And played.
This time, not just for themselves.
But for everyone who had ever felt broken.
Everyone who had ever been told they were too much.
Too loud.
Too different.
Too strange.
They played for the ones who had been told to be silent.
And for the ones who had chosen to speak anyway.
Through tics.
Through tremors.
Through tears.
Through truth.
---
The New Sound
Later that night, Sara uploaded the finished composition to YouTube.
She titled it simply:
Duet in Silence – Final Version
The video opened with a black screen.
Then, soft piano notes.
Then, the sound of breathing.
Then, the unmistakable rhythm of tics layered over the melody.
Clicks.
Grunts.
Blinks.
Gasps.
Laughter.
Cries.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't meant to be.
It was them .
Raw.
Real.
Unfiltered.
When the final note faded, the screen went white.
Words appeared in elegant script:
"To everyone who has ever felt like they didn't belong…"
"You are not broken."
"You are not noise."
"You are music waiting to be heard."
Then, credits rolled.
Sara's name.
Rhodes'.
And finally:
"Thank you for listening."
---
The Response
By morning, the video had gone viral.
Fans flooded the comments section.
"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
"I have Tourette's and I've never felt seen until now."
"This isn't just music. It's healing."
"You two are magic."
Sara read every comment.
Some made her cry.
Others made her laugh.
One, in particular, caught her attention.
"I used to hate my tics. Now I hear them differently. Like they're part of something bigger."
—Anonymous
She blinked rapidly—five times fast.
Then typed a response.
"That's because they are."
—Sara
---
The Conversation
Later that afternoon, Sara and Rhodes sat on the rooftop again, watching the sun dip below the skyline.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
He rested his cheek on the top of her head.
"You think people will understand it?" she asked quietly.
He blinked slowly. "Some will. Some won't."
She exhaled. "That's okay."
He nodded. "Yeah."
She lifted her head to look at him.
"What now?" she asked.
He considered the question.
Then said, "We keep going."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
He smirked. "We make more music. We tell more stories. We help more people."
She grinned. "Sounds like a plan."
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She blinked again—softly this time.
Then she kissed him.
Slow.
Deep.
Full of everything they had survived.
Everything they had built.
Everything they had become.
---
The Conflict Rises
Two weeks later, the conflict arrived in the form of a message.
An email.
Subject line: "Your Noise Has Been Heard"
Sender: Unknown.
Body:
Dear Sara & Rhodes,
Your music has reached ears that listen closely.
There are those who believe your methods are dangerous.
That your work promotes disorder instead of cure.
They want you to stop.
Be careful.
Some voices don't want to be heard.
Sara read the message twice.
Then a third time.
Her tics flared—sharp, sudden.
She looked at Rhodes.
He was already reading the message over her shoulder.
His jaw tightened.
His head jerked sideways.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then reopened them.
"They're afraid," he said.
She blinked rapidly. "Of what?"
"That we're proving they were wrong."
She narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he reached for his phone.
Scrolled.
Opened another email.
One he hadn't shown her before.
It was from a private research foundation.
Offering funding.
Support.
Resources.
With one condition:
Discontinue public promotion of neurological conditions as artistic expressions.
Focus solely on medical treatment and behavioral modification.
Do not continue using tics in music.
Do not encourage others to embrace their symptoms.
Sara stared at the words.
Then turned to Rhodes.
"You haven't responded yet."
He shook his head. "I was waiting."
"For what?"
"To decide if I could live with myself if I agreed."
She reached out and took his hand.
"You don't have to agree."
He looked at her. "I know."
She squeezed his fingers. "We don't need their money. Their approval. Their permission."
He gave a small smile. "No. We don't."
She blinked again—five times fast.
"Then let's make more noise."
He laughed softly. "Always."
---
The Twist
Three days later, Sara received a call.
Unknown number.
She almost didn't answer.
But something told her to.
"Hello?"
A voice came through the line—calm, professional, familiar.
"Miss Duckling. This is Dr. Elise Wren from the National Institute of Neurological Disorders."
Sara stiffened.
Rhodes looked at her.
She put the call on speaker.
Dr. Wren continued.
"We've reviewed your recent work with Mr. Kissinger. And we'd like to offer both of you an opportunity."
Sara exchanged a glance with Rhodes.
He nodded.
She spoke.
"What kind of opportunity?"
"There's a new initiative forming—a collaborative project between neuroscientists and artists aimed at redefining how neurological disorders are perceived."
Sara's breath caught.
Dr. Wren continued.
"We believe your work has the potential to change lives. We want you involved."
Sara blinked rapidly.
Five times.
Fast.
Then slow.
Then steady.
She looked at Rhodes.
He looked stunned.
She whispered, "They're giving us a chance to prove them wrong."
He nodded. "Together."
She cleared her throat.
"This collaboration… does it involve silencing our work?"
Dr. Wren hesitated.
Then answered, "No. It involves amplifying it."
Sara let out a shaky breath.
Then said, "We're in."
---
Final Scene: The Rooftop Again
One last time, they stood on the rooftop.
Wind blowing.
Sky painted in gold and violet.
City humming below.
Sara looked at Rhodes.
He looked at her.
They had come so far.
From strangers on a ledge.
To lovers in rhythm.
To artists in resistance.
To advocates in defiance.
And now?
Now they were something more.
They were proof.
Proof that silence didn't heal.
Proof that pain could be transformed.
Proof that beauty could be born from chaos.
She stepped closer.
Laced her fingers with his.
He kissed her forehead.
She blinked.
Five times.
Fast.
Then slow.
Then steady.
Then she whispered, "We did it."
He smiled. "We're just getting started."
And together, they stood on the edge of everything.
Beyond silence.
Beyond fear.
Beyond limits.
Just two albinos with Tourette's.
Still dancing to their own rhythm.
Still writing their symphony.
Still choosing love.
Still choosing life.
Still choosing themselves .