-*?? . ??? ? ?.-*??
His room hasn’t changed one bit. Same posters, same faded blankets, same family photos—and the same picture of us on his nightstand. Even the musical instruments scattered across the floor are in their exact places, frozen in time.
Vincent found my old camera in his closet and gave it back to me. I never thought I’d see it again. I was sure my mother had sold it off years ago, but no—the memories I thought I’d lost are all still here, waiting.
He’s gone downstairs to get us two slices of cheesecake, and I’m sitting cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through hundreds of photos and videos. Each one is a doorway back into our adolescence, flooding me with feelings I thought I had buried.
By the time Vincent reenters with a tray in his hands, I’ve pulled up a shaky old video about him, with his guitar in hand, performing near Golden Gate Park. The audio is trash, the image grainy, but my heart remembers every detail. His first street performance. I posted it on YouTube once, hoping it would go viral, but it never did.
He sits down beside me, passing me a plate. I take it, then angle the camera screen toward him.
At first he frowns, confused—then recognition sparks in his eyes. “Oh, I remember this moment. You uploaded that one on YouTube, right?”
I nod. “You should try again.”
“Doing what?”
“Posting videos of your covers. The world lives on social media now. You’d only need a decent camera, Vincent. I swear you’d get noticed.”
But he shakes his head, lips pulling tight. “You heard Wilson. I have no personality, and I’m just some Kurt Cobain knockoff.He said I’ll never be more than a stand-in if a band loses a guitarist.”
“And you think he’s right?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Do you believe him?”
He shrugs, looking away.“He’s a big shot, and I’m just some clueless kid. I don’t know the first thing about the music industry.”
Frustration surges in me. “Anyone who’s ever heard you play knows better. Vincent, your music’s not imitation—it’s you. Every note’s like a piece of your heart. You connect with your guitar in a way no one else does. And you’re going to let some arrogant old man tell you to stop? You’re going to let one opinion crush the only thing you’ve ever loved most? Rockstars don’t give up, Vincent Cooper. Are you going to give up?”
“Nova...” He still won’t look at me.
I grit my teeth and grab his chin, forcing his hazel eyes to meet mine. “Answer me. Are you a loser?”
“What?”
“Are you a loser?”
“Nova, don’t—” He exhales shakily. “I don’t know.”
Rage coils hot in my chest and years of bottled anger spill out. “You’ve been fighting your demons your whole life, surviving what that douchebag did to you, and now you’re going to letthisman destroy your dreams? Why am I surprised? This is your thing—you always run when it gets hard. Admit it. You’re a coward.”
The word lands like a spark on gasoline. His sadness ignites, twisting into anger. His fists ball against the sheets.
“Coward? Me? What about you, Marshall?” His voice is low and sharp. “You’re no model of courage.” He murmurs, staring at the pavement.
“At least I didn’t ran from this town and all my friends for four years, just because I slept with my best friend. At least I didn’t leave because my best friend was in love with me and I was too much of a coward to handle it!”
The words sting, but before I can speak, he grabs my hands, desperate. “Nova, I didn’t leave because of—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, and his grip falls away. “I’m sorry. I was wrong for what I did. But you don’t have any right to call me a coward.”
My heart aches. I soften instantly, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wanted to get a reaction from you.”
His expression gentles, and he edges closer. “You could never hurt me. Not on purpose.”
He shifts, and the stereo remote clicks under him. Suddenly Jeff Buckley’sLover, You Should’ve Come Overfills the room, rich and aching.
My skin prickles, goosebumps racing up my arms. We lock eyes, trapped in the pull. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my lips part before I can stop them.
