“Just know,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t expect forgiveness. I just need you to understand where I was coming from.”
The silence presses in, weighted with all we haven’t said, the shirts laid out like a tangible reminder of what we’ve lost, and the tenderness of our potential to rebuild.
“Your honesty means more than you know, Tristan.”With a deep breath, I reach for one of the shirts, the fabric soft under my fingertips. Running it between my hands, I absorb the sensation—the texture, the familiarity of it. My shoulders relax, breathing steadier as the memories flicker in my mind. I can see him wearing it on sunny days, sharing laughter and secrets, before it all crumbled.
“Why did you let it go so far?”I know this isn’t only about him; it’s about us, the tangled web of choices we’ve made that led us here. I sit up straighter, asserting the strength of my convictions as I feel the momentum shift between us.
His expression darkens, eyes dropping to the floor, and for a moment, I see the internal battle raging behind those stormy blue depths. “It felt easier to drown in bitterness than to face the truth of what I lost. I didn’t know how to reach out for you; I thought you were done with me. If you were moving on, why should I hold onto hope?”
“There are different ways to move forward, Tristan,”I remind him.“You didn’t have to hurt me to get that message across. Did you ever consider what you might be sacrificing by holding onto anger instead of connecting?”I know I made the same mistake. I never took the opportunity to talk to him about his pain of abandoning me either.
He rubs the back of his neck, shame flushing his skin a deeper hue. I can sense the tempest brewing within him, the struggle to unravel layers of hurt without losing his fragile grasp on self-control. “I felt betrayed; I wanted to make you understand my pain,” he whispers, his voice wavering. “But instead, I just pushed you away.”
“It hurts to be left behind,”I offer, tilting my head slightly, wanting him to know I see him, that I acknowledge his pain.“But doing that to me? You could have chosen differently. I don’t want to onlytalkabout forgiveness; I want us to learn and grow from all of this.”
His gaze snaps to mine, filled with a mix of guilt and longing. “I don’t want to lose you again,” he admits, his voice heavy with emotion, quivering like a taut string ready to snap. It cuts through me, striking chords of empathy, and there’s a shared warmth threading between us—a fragile lifeline waiting to be reclaimed.
“There’s no easy fix, Tristan,”I respond, almost daring him to acknowledge the hard truth of our situation.“But I want to believe we can do better together. That’s what matters.”I take a breath, allowing myself to lean a little closer, inviting him in with my body language, showing that I’m open to this difficult journey.
He swallows hard, and for a moment, we simply sit there, the space between us charged with unsaid promises. “I’ve felt so alone,” he murmurs, almost as if the words slip out unbidden. “Like everything I touch just turns to ash. When you vanishedfrom my life, it made the darkness I was already steeped in feel more permanent.”
I reach for the shirt I held earlier, fingers brushing over the soft cotton.“I can understand that feeling.”I pull it into my lap, allowing the fabric to bridge the distance.“But if we’re going to forge a new path, we must be willing to confront what got us here.”
Tristan’s brow furrows, determination tightening his expression. “I want to earn your trust back. I’ll work to show you how sincere I am, that my words aren’t just empty gestures,” he promises, something fierce sparking in his eyes as he looks at me, no longer shying away.
“You need to mean it with your actions, too,”I remind him, the gravity of my own words hanging in the air, grounding us in the reality of our connection.“This time, let’s communicate; it’s important we both heal. But we can’t let resentment lead us down the wrong road.”
He nods slowly, fully aware of the emotional stakes we’re both gambling with. “I won’t let you down, Raina. I’m ready to face the music—literally and figuratively.”
As we sit in the quiet of the room, there’s a sense of renewed hope swirling around us, binding us tighter than the past has pulled us apart.
“Let’s take it day by day,”I type before glancing back at him.“I can acknowledge your honesty and see the courage it takes to own up to your mistakes. We’re a team; let’s build something more meaningful.”
His lips twitch upward, the corners lifting in a tentative smile that ignites the shadows in his gaze. “You mean that?”
“Absolutely,” I affirm out loud, breathing a little easier.“But remember, this is just the first step. We have so much work to do.”
“I’m ready for it,” he declares with a newfound conviction, standing from where he kneels on the floor, the act itself symbolizing the possibility of transformation. The old weight seems to lift from his shoulders, even if it’s only slightly, and in that moment, I believe we can weather any storm.
As he heads for the door, I watch him closely, knowing we are both on the cusp of a fragile new beginning. “I’ll prove it to you,” he promises once more, determination glistening in his eyes as he opens the door, stepping back into the world we must face together.
In his departure, I feel a renewed sense of possibility—of two fractured souls taking hesitant steps toward mending a bond that once seemed irreparably broken. And as I sit, the fabric of the shirt resting in my lap, I allow myself a small glimmer of hope that we might just find our way back to each other in the music we create, the journey ahead shimmering with the prospect of what could be.
It turns out the best therapist in the country wasn’t as close as I’d hoped, but any amount of travel is worth it, even if I have to do it several times a week. I need this to go well, which means I’ll do anything to have the best.
My future depends on it.
The clinic looks like every other medical office I’ve ever hated. An attempt at spa-like tranquility—a soft glow from hidden lights, pastel art on the walls, gentle plinky music piped in through tinny ceiling speakers—but underneath, it’s the same clinical office as any other medical facility.
The waiting room is empty except for a woman in burgundy scrubs who sits behind a glass partition scrolling through her phone as she pretends not to look at me.
Thankfully, Gill was able to arrange for my appointment to happen after hours, not wanting anyone from the public to be here at the same time as me. It would make a security nightmare. She even had everyone at the office sign NDAs, not trusting them to abide by simple HIPPA laws.
Keaton’s hand rests on my lower back, guiding me as I choose a seat near the window and let my eyes roam, collecting details—ticking off the clichés. Stacks of old magazines. A plastic plant with dusty leaves. Three framed posters of vocal anatomy.
I check my phone and see four missed texts from Nash, two from Blake, one from Dare, and a group thread blowing up with a meme war between the guys.
Seeing how much they care about me makes me smile. I wish they could’ve all come with, but I wasn’t about to have them all making a spectacle waiting here for me while I have my appointment. I respond to them, then power down my screen.
