This time, though, it’s different. Or so I hope it is. This move isn’t about survival. It’s about possibility. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But there’s this part of me that wonders if I’m chasing something I can’t catch, or maybe running from something I’m not ready to face. Is this about building a new life, or is it about avoiding the pieces of the old one I haven’t fully dealt with? Maybe it’s both.
Either way, I can’t shake the fear that I’m making the same mistakes all over again.
I’m holding a box, the cardboard edges biting into my palms as I maneuver around the clutter. The movers are chatting in the background, their voices blending with the faint hum of the radio they’ve had on since morning. It’s just noise—harmless, forgettable—until it isn’t.
A familiar melody filters through the air, and my chest tightens as the box grows heavier in my hands. I freeze mid-step, the sound crashing over me. His voice. Deep. Unmistakable. It fills the room, pressing against me with every word.
“Ophelia, you light up my darkest days, the sun in my shadow, my heart’s only blaze . . .”
The song digs into me, relentless, pulling me into memories I’ve fought to bury. The box tilts slightly in my grasp, the contents shifting inside—old records, pieces of him I swore I was ready to let go of. My breath hitches as the melody wraps itself around me, unwelcome and unyielding, like it’s trying to remind me of everything I’ve been trying to forget.
It’s our song. The one he wrote for me. The one threaded with every promise we whispered in the dark. Midnight confessions, fragile hopes, all of it poured into a melody that felt like forever. Hearing it now, when I’m trying to pack up my life and let go of the past, feels like a cruel trick of fate.
The lyrics crawl beneath my skin, stirring emotions I’ve spent years trying to bury. I stand frozen, the sound of his voice pulling at every thread of my resolve, unraveling the carefully stitched pieces of my life. Moving forward feels like an impossible task when the past keeps finding its way back, clawing at me, demanding to be felt.
It’s as if an old, forgotten part of me has broken free, raw and unyielding, demanding attention. My thoughts spiral, too fast to catch, a tangle of questions colliding in my mind.
Why this song? Why now?
Is this a coincidence—or a message?
Am I moving on too quickly?
Have I convinced myself I’m ready when I’m not?
Is this a sign I’m still tethered to him, to the life we almost had? Or is it his way of telling me it’s time to let go, to finally step into the future I’ve been trying to build?
But the thought of letting go—truly letting go—makes my chest constrict. If I move forward with Haydn, does that mean I’m leaving Keane behind forever? And why does that thought both soothe and hurt? The relief is tangled with a pain so deep it feels impossible to untangle.
“It means nothing, Pia.” Haydn’s voice breaks through, firm yet gentle, cutting through the storm in my mind like sunlight filtering through a shuttered room—soft, warm, and impossible to ignore. He steps closer, and the space around me seems to shift, his presence an anchor in the chaos of my thoughts, a quiet clarity to the whirlwind of emotions twisting inside me.
His words are a melody, soft and resonant, weaving through the fractured edges of my soul with an aching tenderness. They soothe like velvet brushing over rawness, unyielding yet impossibly gentle. He is gravity itself, drawing me in with a force that feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the tide meeting the shore.
His hand rests on my shoulder, grounding me, tethering me to this moment. “Pia,” he says again, softer this time, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers skimming down my spine. The way he looks at me—steady, unwavering, like I’m the only thing that matters—makes the ache in my chest unravel just a little.
He’s here. Haydn Wesford. The man who’s been my compass in the dark, pointing me toward a life I’ve been too afraid to imagine. The one who urged me to take this leap, to trust in a future I’m still fumbling to believe in.
And when he tilts his head, his thumb brushing softly over my shoulder, I know—he’s not just here. He’s mine.
I force a small, tight smile, but my heart flutters as the song continues, each lyric weaving through my mind, pulling me back to Keane. Back to when his love felt like everything, when his voice carried promises I thought would last forever. It’s mostly not because of the love I had for him, but for the guilt that eats my heart because I can be here and he . . . he’s no more.
“Ophelia, I’d chase a thousand stars to keep you near . . .” The words hit like a soft ache, stirring the depths of what we once were and the ache of all we let slip away. They pull me back to a time I thought I’d buried, unraveling the carefully stitched pieces of a version of myself I’ve fought to leave behind.
Haydn’s hand glides down to mine, his touch firm yet tender, drawing me back from the edge where my thoughts spiral unchecked. “It’s just a song, Pia. Not a sign.” His voice holds a certainty that steadies the tempest inside me, each word threading through the noise with quiet strength.
He takes the box from my trembling hands, his movements deliberate and gentle, as if understanding how much weight it carries for me. Setting it aside, he steps closer, his arms wrapping around me with a warmth that seeps into every fractured corner of my being. His embrace doesn’t just hold me—it anchors me, his presence a wordless promise that I’m not alone in this moment.
“Just a song,” he says again, his voice softer now, near my ear. The sound of it, the way he speaks as if I’m the only person in his world, untangles the knot in my chest.
But the peaceful feeling doesn’t last long. My anxiety spikes. The thing is that this wasn’t just a song. Back then, it was everything—the way Keane asked me to believe in him, in us. Those words held our dreams, our promises, our future. And now, as Haydn’s warmth surrounds me, I’m struck by the weight of what it means to move forward when someone I once loved couldn’t.
A lump rises in my throat, and my voice wavers as I whisper, “How can I keep going when he can’t?”
Haydn tightens his hold on me, his warmth seeping into the fractures I’ve tried to ignore, steadying the fragile parts of me that feel on the verge of breaking. But the ache inside me refuses to settle. It lingers as the melody fades into silence.
“You’re allowed to carry him with you,” he murmurs, his voice gentle, almost tender. “But you’re also allowed to move forward, Pia. We can build something new, something just as real. I’m not asking you to forget him—I know that’s not possible. I just . . . want you to let yourself live.”
I close my eyes, leaning into him, welcoming the slow, steady beat of his heart to soothe me. He’s here, with me, in this messy, imperfect present, and maybe that’s exactly where I need to be.
