“I meant all of it,” he says quietly. “The chalk. The words. Every line.”
I nod, eyes still on the street. “I know.”
Silence stretches between us.
Finally, he sighs. “The thing is—the songs, they never really were about you. Not at first. Not when we were just kids or when I first left. But somewhere along the way, your laugh worked its way into every chorus. Your words became the verses. Even when I didn’t say your name—I was still singing about you.”
I close my eyes. Press my forehead to my knees.
“You want to know the moment I knew it was more?” he asks.
Still not looking at him, I say, “When you made me come?”
He lets out a chuckle. “No. Though top memory for sure. It was one of our songwriting nights. You were barefoot, your hair up in one of those messy buns, wearing that hoodie with the hole in the sleeve. You handed me that sandwich with potato chips crunched between the bread and grinned like you’d won a trophy.” He exhales, long and slow. “And I remember thinking, God, I’d trade every award I’ve ever won to see her smile at me like that again.”
I turn my head. Meet his eyes. They’re shining but steady.
“How do we make this work? Our lives aren’t the most compatible.”
He shakes his head. “My life is wherever you are, Iz.”
A lump forms in my throat.
I sit with that for a while, letting it settle between us like dust after a storm.
“When I heard at the wedding that you’d sold the farm early…” I trail off.
His face scrunches in confusion. Just slightly. Enough to make him look like the boy I used to know.
“I didn’t sell the farm. I decided to keep it. To lease it to Matt.”
I should’ve known better than to listen to gossip. “I’m so glad. But at the time, it felt like a sign that you weren’t coming back. I wanted to believe you, but…it felt like I was getting left behind. Again.”
“I didn’t mean to leave you,” he whispers. “Not then, and definitely not now.”
“I know,” I say, and for the first time, I think I actually do.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded, wrinkled sheet of paper. It’s smudged in places, like it’s been handled too many times. He hesitates, then passes it to me.
“Wrote it during HMA rehearsals. Couldn’t get it out of my head.”
I unfold it.
It’s lyrics. Raw. Messy. Real.
The first few lines are shaky. The kind of lines you only write when you’re hurting and not sure if anyone will ever hear them. But the last lines?
They’re perfect.
I left for the music. I’m staying for the girl.
I glance at him, my vision blurry now.
“I hate how good that is,” I say.
He laughs once, then presses his forehead against mine. “You inspire the best of me.”
I kiss him.
