I towel off, pad into the bedroom, and reach for my softest sweatshirt—the one that’s two sizes too big and smells faintly of vanilla from the last time I washed it with my favorite detergent. I pull it over my head like armor. Then leggings. Fuzzy socks. Clothes that don’t ask anything of me.
Enough with the fear and the questions and the wondering. No matter how scared I am, no matter how much my heart stutters at the thought of what comes next—
I have to tell Max.
30
MAX
A Meeting with Jake
It’s late afternoon, and I’m back at my apartment after an early morning meeting—down to just sweatpants and an old T-shirt with a torn collar and a faded logo from some obscure band only five people remember.
Melody is curled up in the corner of the couch, her little body twitching with dreams—probably chasing invisible strings in her sleep.
I haven’t heard much from Nora today, but she deserves a day to decompress. Maybe even a quiet one without me for once. That’s totally fine.
I’m enjoying the quiet too, strumming a lazy G chord and letting it ring out.
A notebook rests on one knee, the guitar neck angled toward the ceiling. I’m working on a new song—simple, catchy, a little brighter than my usual vibe.
But I can’t help it.
I’ve got sunshine in my damn blood this week.
I hum the hook under my breath as I sketch out another verse:
She came in quiet / like a page turning slow / but her laugh hit like a chorus I already know...
Cheesy? A little. But it works.
I run through the chord progression again—D to B minor to G to A—letting it flow smoother this time. The tune’s got a bounce to it. One of those songs that feels like a grin you can’t suppress. Definitely not my usual late-night, whiskey-and-regret kind of track.
But this? This is a Nora song.
Soft cotton and cat fur. Books on the floor. Her bare feet on my coffee table, laughing like I’m the funniest thing on Earth.
My fingers go still on the strings.
It’s not just a lyric. It’s truth. That thing I’ve been circling for weeks without saying it out loud.
A truth that snuck up on me.
I want her in every room I walk into. I want her shoes by my door, her hair on my pillow, her mug in my sink. I want to write songs she’ll never hear and songs she’ll hear onstage with my heart in every line. I want her.
And shit, I love her.
The realization hits like a wave.
I love her.
I set the guitar down and grab the notebook. The melody's clearer now. Words pour out, fast and unfiltered, like they’ve been waiting for this moment to find their shape.
She’s the verse I didn’t know I needed / the truth in between the lines / she’s quiet thunder, soft lightning / she’s mine—if I’m brave enough to ask her to be.
I’m halfway through laying down a rough voice memo when my phone buzzes across the counter.
Jake Armstrong.
