And I finally found the words I couldn't say
We buried our secrets under seventeen summers
Dug them up and the roots had never died
Every broken road, every year I spent wandering
Was just the long way back to you
The ocean remembers what the shore forgets
And the heart holds a debt that the mind won't pay
You came back like a song I never finished
And I finally found the words I couldn't say
So here's the song I owed you, Delilah
Not the boy's version—clumsy, scared, and small
Here's the man who waited, who never stopped writing
Who loved you before he knew what love was at all
The ocean remembers what the shore forgets
And I remember every word you said
You came back like a song I never finished
And darling, we're not done yet
The last note hangs in the salt air. Then silence and Delilah is out of her chair and crossing the stage and kissing him while the crowd loses its mind.
I’m clapping. Everyone is clapping. Michelle is sobbing into Grayson’s shoulder. Jo is holding Dean’s hand so tight his fingers are turning white. Mads has one hand on her belly and the other wiping her eyes, and Asher is rubbing her back and whispering something that makes her laugh through the tears. Hazel is leaning against Jack, dabbing her mascara with a cocktail napkin while Jack presses a kiss to her temple. Grandma Hensley is loudly informingHarold that she predicted this twenty years ago, and Harold is nodding along because what else do you do when the woman you love says she’s always right.
Every couple. Every story. All of them here, on a yacht draped in fairy lights, watching two people who lost twenty years find their way home.
I findEmma on the lower deck.
She’s stepped away from the reception for a moment—camera in hand, she’s been shooting for an hour now, capturing everything. The dancing, the toasts, Levi’s song. She’s leaning against the railing, looking at the water, the lights from the yacht reflecting on the dark surface.
“Hey.”
She turns. “Hey.”
I walk over. Stand beside her at the railing. Not touching. Close enough to touch. The music from the reception drifts down to us—something slow, something meant for couples.
“That song,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“He waited twenty years. Rewrote it. Sang it to her in front of everyone.” She shakesher head. “That’s the kind of love story I photograph. I just never thought I’d be standing inside one.”
“Emma.”
“Wait.” She sets her camera on the railing. Turns to face me fully. “I need to say something, and I need to say it before I lose my nerve.”
