“How do you know?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.
His expression hardens. “I just know.”
I want to ask more, but his tone tells me not to push, so I leave it be.
“I should probably get going,” James says, moving towards the front door.
“Right, of course. Thanks again.” I pause, rocking back on my heels. “I’m sorry the girls dragged you into this. You didn’t have to come, but … I’m glad you did.” I offer him a grateful smile.
James glances back at me, softening just enough to stir something in my chest. “It was no trouble,” he replies with awave of dismissal, followed by a quick kiss to my cheek before turning to leave.
The gesture surprises me, leaving me stunned.
He’s never so much as hugged me before.
I grip the door-frame as he descends the front steps. When he reaches the pavement, he turns, tucking his hands into his front pockets, his shoulders hitching slightly in the cool air. He gives me one last sharp nod.
“Bye, April,” he says.
“Bye, James,” I reply softly.
I watch as he retreats down the footpath. My eyes trail after him until he reaches his car and disappears from sight. Only then do my shoulders deflate, and I let out a long, shaky breath.
Closing the door behind me, exhaustion finally settles in, and I drag myself upstairs. I kick off my shoes by the bed, pull back the covers, and slip beneath the fresh, cool sheets. Reaching for my phone, I open Instagram and type Lucas’s name into the search bar.
User not found.
The realisation hits and it feels like I’ve torn stitches—Lucas blocked me. He actually blocked me.He’s only been gone a week.I drop the phone onto the bedside table with a hollow thud as grief takes hold.
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel worse, he’s landed one final blow.
Curling into a ball underneath the duvet, I squeeze my eyes shut, mute and numb as the darkness creeps in, taking hold and pulling me under.
Chapter 13
James
By the time I get home, my mood is soured, tainted by thoughts of Lucas. If only other people could see him the way I did—beyond the smooth, practiced façade he wears so well.
I’ll never forget that bank holiday when he was completing his final year of university. I was still finishing my A-Levels and had been letting off some steam by playing guitar. He couldn’t hide his irritation. Storming upstairs, he burst into my bedroom, seething.
“It doesn’t matter how much you practice; you’re never going to make it. No one will ever take you seriously.”
Then, he twisted a peg on my guitar so violently that the string snapped.
I was devastated. Mum saw my distress and felt so bad, she quietly replaced the string the next day. At the time, she didn’t mention it, but I later found out that she’d skipped her weekly coffee with friends to afford that string. It’s a small sacrifice, but it matters.
After that moment, I made myself a promise: I would earn enough money playing music—something Lucas despised—to ensure Mum could have anything she wanted withouthesitation. She’d never have to skip a cup of coffee, or sacrifice the little joys that made her smile, again.
Without a second thought, I head straight for my bass. She’s a beauty—a rare Spector, her body carved from spalted buckeye in the US, one of only thirty ever made. I saved every penny I earned as a barista after finishing school, knowing she had to be mine.
Grabbing her off the stand, I sling the strap over my shoulder and let my fingers find the strings. Her smooth neck feels like a natural extension of me, and muscle memory takes over as I slide my fingers along the frets, plucking out a familiar melody.
There’s something visceral about the bass compared to other instruments—it reverberates through my entire body, even when I play it without an amp. It’s heavy and gives immediate feedback—you know right away if you’ve nailed it or missed the mark. Beethoven composed music without the ability to hear it; he felt every note through the vibrations. That’s how I feel about the bass. It isn’t just heard—it’s experienced. You don’t just listen to it; youfeelit, deep in your bones.
And when I plug in and play on-stage, the experience is out of this world. The sound pours out and fills the room, overpowering everything else, until there’s nothing left but me and the music. When I play, the rest of the world disappears.
Although Icansing, singing isn’t really my thing—that’s Tom’s job—but when I’m alone, I enjoy writing the occasional song. For me, music is like a journal. Every note carries a memory, every chord captures a feeling, and together they tell the stories I struggle to put into words. Music has always been my greatest refuge. When the world feels too heavy, the notes act as an anchor, pulling me back to solid ground. Words? They’ve failed me more often than not over the years. But music? Music never lets me down. It’s always been my preferred language.
