That—goddammit—that gets my attention.It’s true.Every word of it.
“Fine.I’ll look into it.”I swallow hard.“Maybe even talk to Wilder.”
I push back from the table, the chair scraping against tile like it’s protesting the decision with me.
“I’ll check on Dad,” I say, my voice flatter than I intended.“Then I’ll call Cleo and let her know I won’t be at the record shop for the rest of the week.We’ll work on a schedule—” The pause that follows stretches, just long enough to hear my resistance clawing at the back of my throat.“Listen, I’ll do my best, but the piano students stay.That part of my life doesn’t get put on hold.”
Bernice nods without comment.She knows not to push, at least not this time.
The hallway feels longer on the way out, like the space between decisions has grown wider.I move through it as if my body remembers the weight of every unfinished thing I left behind, even when I tried so hard to walk away clean.It’s not just the agency.It’s the sound of my name tied to Dad’s empire.Then there’s the invisible chords between my past and the man I’ve spent years trying not to think about.
The lobby greets me with the sterile stillness hospitals collect like dust—televisions flashing headlines no one really reads, voices lowered to whispers, grief tucked into sleeves.In the far corner, a woman speaks into her phone, face pressed into the crook of her arm, her words garbled by a combination of tears and exhaustion.
Instead of checking on Dad, I decide to take a walk—or better yet, drive home.Allegra might be in the mood to keep me company.
Outside, the wind rises against my coat, curling under the hem, sliding across my skin in a way that reminds me I’m still exposed no matter how tightly I wrap myself.There’s no real protection against memory.No fabric thick enough to silence that kind of ghost.
My car waits where I left it.I slide behind the wheel and let my hands rest on the steering wheel, fingers curled tight—not shaking, though they threaten to.
The radio comes to life with the twist of a dial.Bach spills through the speakers in clean, elegant lines.There’s comfort in the structure, in the precision of something that doesn’t change.Yet somehow, all I hear is him.
Twelve years ago, Roderick told me I was his symphony in a world without sound.He said it like it was a fact, not a metaphor, not an attempt to impress.Just the truth he believed in, before everything cracked and he forgot what mattered—or realized he never loved me.
Now I sit in this car without any idea what day it is or what version of myself just agreed to step back into the life I left.I don’t know what to name the feeling clawing its way up my spine, what category to file this under—obligation, guilt, something closer to longing than I want to admit.
All I know is I said yes.
And somewhere out there, Roderick’s waiting.Though he doesn’t know it yet, I’m coming.
ChapterNineteen
Private Message | EchoZone Internal Chat
From: StringTheory27
To: DeadStrings
Date: May 2nd, 1997, 7:15 PM
Subject: Fear?
I’m not talkingabout being scared of the boogie man or some horror movie that’s more gore than suspense.Nope.I refer to the fear of losing someone you haven’t told you love.The fear of saying too much and watching them leave.Of saying nothing and wondering if that’s what made them go.
The fear that feeling this much makes you fragile in a world that tells you to toughen up and move on.The one that creeps, settles in your chest, and waits for you to notice.And when you finally do, it’s already running the show and creating an anxiety you can’t control.
Been thinking about fear lately.
Not the obvious we all experience while watching a movie.I mean the quieter versions.
The fear of losing someone you haven’t told you love yet.
The fear of saying it and having it thrown back in your face because you mean nothing.Nothing.
The fear of saying too much.
Of not saying enough.
Of feeling too deeply in a world that tells you to get over it and keep moving.
