For the first time in weeks, she'd written something that wasn't about Alissa, wasn't about the band, wasn't about everything she'd lost.
It was about… this. Whatever this was.
She played the lines again, adjusting the melody, feeling the shape of the song start to emerge.
Her phone buzzed on the side table. Another notification, probably. More comments, more think pieces, more people who thought they knew her based on a photograph and a headline.
She ignored it.
Arty's words came back to her:Running away and hiding are different things. One's about fear. The other's about choice.
She wasn't sure which one she was doing yet. But maybe, just maybe, she was starting to figure it out.
She thought about Annabelle, standing on her doorstep, apologizing profusely for something that wasn't even her fault. Those ridiculous blue eyes full of genuine distress, like she'd personally destroyed Raven's life rather than just… been tangentially involved in a photo.
This wasn't Annabelle's fault. She'd been nothing but kind, in her relentlessly cheerful, boundary-ignoring way. Nina had taken the photo, sure, but Raven couldn't even really blame her for that. The woman was clumsy and enthusiastic and probably hadn't thought twice about posting a sweet moment to the school's social media.
And Raven herself had accidentally put Annabelle on the internet that first week, dinosaur pajamas and all.
So really, they were even, weren’t they?
She closed her eyes, still playing those four lines over and over, and let herself think about Annabelle properly for the first time since the photo.
The way she'd looked watching Raven teach the children, like she was seeing something she hadn't expected. The way she always smiled, even when Raven was being deliberately difficult. The way she baked biscuits and organized fundraisers and seemed to genuinely believe that everything would work out fine in the end.
It was exhausting, that kind of optimism.
And also… sort of nice.
Raven opened her eyes and looked down at her guitar.
Four lines. It wasn't much. But it was a start.
Chapter Fifteen
Annabelle stared at the spreadsheet on her laptop screen and felt the distinct urge to either laugh hysterically or burst into tears. Neither seemed particularly professional for a Thursday morning in the staffroom, so she settled for taking another sip of her now-cold tea and pretending everything was perfectly fine.
Which it was.
Obviously.
She had twenty-eight students to teach, three lesson plans to prepare, a book donation drive to organize, a fundraiser rapidly approaching, Jamie Long looking more withdrawn by the day, and approximately four hours of sleep under her belt because she'd spent most of last night hand-painting donation signs. And trying not to listen to her neighbor rocking out.
But it was fine.
Everything was absolutely, completely, totally fine.
"You look knackered," Lily said, appearing at her elbow with a fresh mug of tea.
"I'm not knackered, I'm energized," Annabelle said brightly, accepting the tea anyway. "Full of vim and vigor."
"You have a paint smudge on your cheek."
Annabelle rubbed at her face. "Does that help?"
"Not really." Lily sat down across from her, fixing her with that particular look she reserved for when Annabelle was being ridiculous. "You're doing too much."
"I'm doing exactly the right amount."
