“I’m working with a therapist now,” I say quietly.“Unpacking the trauma.The shit from childhood.The grief.Everything I shoved into songs and silence.”
“You lost a lot,” he says.And then he reaches for my hand.
Warm fingers, rough calluses.A squeeze that isn’t casual.Not when his thumb brushes mine in slow, lazy strokes that set every nerve in my body on edge.
“I tried my best to help,” he says.“To protect you.”
“And that’s one of the reasons I loved you so much,” I whisper.“You protected me.You loved me in ways no one else ever has.”
“I did,” he says, voice caught between guilt and hunger.“Until?—”
“My father fucked everything up,” I cut him off before he can say what I already know.“But I hope you realize ...you were a victim too.”
He nods.His jaw tightens.His hand doesn’t let go of mine.
“I’m working on accepting that,” he says slowly, his voice thick.“Being a victim.But also understanding that I don’t have to live there.I don’t have to make every choice from pain.I’m allowed to move forward without dragging the worst parts of my past with me.”
And fuck if that doesn’t undo me.
Because he’s not just trying—he’s growing.Changing.Rebuilding.
And maybe—just maybe—I’m still part of the blueprint.
I stare at our hands and wonder what this is, if this is something we can salvage or if maybe we’re just doing this out of habit.Habits are hard to break even when you haven’t done it in more than a decade.
Thankfully, the waitress comes back.I pull my hand away, and we order.It’s best if we keep this friendly.If I don’t read too much into it, because if not, one of us will end up hurt.I don’t want that for either of us.
ChapterOne Hundred Nine
Private Message | EchoZone Internal Chat
From: DeadStrings
To: StringTheory27
Date: October 5th, 1997, 2:27 AM
Subject: Can people fall in love again?
I was thinkingabout switching gyms.
There’s a new one a few blocks from my place—open twenty-four-seven.Maybe I’ll start showing up at 2 a.m.instead of sitting in front of the stereo, waiting for the perfect song to tell me whether I’m doing something right ...or if I’m just convincing myself that I am.
Insomnia makes everything feel like a metaphor.
A song.
A question.
A memory you weren’t planning to revisit.
Sometimes I think about how easy it is to start over with strangers.You’re blank pages to each other.No scribbled-out arguments.No crossed wires or faded notes in the margins.
But what about people you already know?
People who mattered?
Is it naïve to think we get second chances at that kind of thing?
