“One hour.”
I’m halfway to my car before Jovie yells after me. “Whatever happened before, it doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”
I don’t turn around because we both know that’s not how trauma works. Past betrayal doesn’t guarantee future betrayal, but it sure as hell teaches you to recognize the warning signs. And right now, every instinct I’ve developed over the last decade is screaming danger.
The drive back to my house takes longer than it should because I keep making wrong turns, my mind replaying not Jovie’s words but the memory of Darian’s mouth on mine. The way he said my name, like it was a prayer. How gentle his hands were even when I was anything but gentle with him. By the time I pull into my driveway, my hands are shaking, and my chest feels so tight, it’s going to explode.
Lily’s still at camp, which gives me some time alone with my thoughts. The most logical thing to do is shower, to scrub away the lingering scent of Darian’s cologne.
But then I can’t smell him on my body, my clothes.
Instead, I find myself sitting on my bedroom floor with my guitar and a notebook, trying to write my way out of the emotional maze I’ve constructed.
The first chord sounds hollow in my room. I try to find a melody that matches what I’m feeling, but everything comes out fractured and incomplete. Like trying to capture lightning in a mason jar.
I write down three words and scratch them out. Start a verse and tear out the page. The notebook fills with false starts andfrustrated scribbles, each failed attempt a reminder that I’m better at running venues than I am at processing emotions.
Maybe that’s all I’m good for.
The thought appears unbidden, bitter and familiar. It tastes like every doubt I’ve swallowed over the years, every time I’ve chosen safety over risk, management over vulnerability.
I flip to a fresh page and try again.
Running from the feel of gentle hands Like they might expose what I’ve been hiding
The words flow easier this time, honest in a way that makes my throat tight. I keep writing, letting the verses spill out without editing, without judgment.
Built these walls so high I can’t see over
Forgot what it feels like to be held
But his touch found every broken place in me
And I remembered what I used to need
I stop writing and stare at the page. The lyrics are raw, unpolished, probably terrible. But they’re mine in a way that feels dangerous and necessary.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I reach for it automatically. Darian’s name on the screen makes my pulse spike.
Hope you’re okay. Your sweater is still here if you want it back.
The casual mention of my sweater—evidence of how quickly I fled—makes my stomach twist with shame. I stare at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Five different responses form and dissolve before I type anything.
Keep it.
I hit send before I can change my mind, then immediately want to take it back. The typing indicator shows he’s responding, and I hold my breath waiting for his reply.
Rye, what we did?—
I stare at the words he’s unable to finish. I delete three attempts at answers and type:Was a mistake.
This time his response takes longer.
If you say so.
The resignation in those four words cuts deeper than anger would have. I set the phone aside and return to my notebook, trying to lose myself in lyrics that make sense of the chaos in my head.
But every line I write sounds like justification, like I’m trying to convince myself that isolation is noble instead of cowardly. I tear out page after page, balling them up and throwing them across the room until my floor looks like a paper snowstorm. The sight of crumpled lyrics scattered around my feet triggers a memory without warning.
