I don’t breathe until he turns the corner and disappears.
Bryce waits. Not talking. Not asking. Just present.
Finally I whisper, “I can handle this.”
He leans down, close enough that his breath grazes my cheek.
“No,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to handle everything alone.”
My heart misfires.
I don’t respond.
I just unlock my car, mumble, “Goodnight,” and get in before I do something irresponsible.
***
Later that night, I’m curled under a blanket on my couch with tea and a headache when my email notification pops.
From Mark.
Subject line:One Last Song.
I stare at it.
I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t.
I click.
A demo link. A single sentence:
Please listen. Then I’ll stop.
I press play.
His voice fills the room. Soft. Hurting. Familiar.
The lyrics are good. Painfully good. Every line a memory. Every chord a history I don’t know how to neatly box away.
One tear falls. Then another.
When the last chord fades, I close the file. Delete it.
And breathe.
***
I’m brushing my teeth, trying to convince myself I’m fine, when my phone buzzes again.
Another email? Another apology? Another song?
No.
A voice message.
From Bryce.
