Finally, I’ve watched every one he’s posted…
I stare at my phone for so long after pausing the last reel that the screen goes black. It’s heavy in my hands, warm from the way I’ve clutched it. The videos swirl in my mind, Tristan’s confessions and apologies echoing louder than I thought possible. My thumbs hover uncertainly above the keyboard, ready to type out a text to Tristan. My breath catches thenfalters. I want to say so much, and yet the words won’t come to me.
“I…” I start, then delete, shaking my head, as if clearing the storm inside me.
The room seems to shrink around me, and emotion wraps around my throat. The comforting silence takes a turn into deafening. I set the phone down, fingertips tracing the cold surface as if it will inspire whatever I want to say.
“You don’t have to say anything to him if you’re not ready,” Dare whispers next to me, not wanting to be too abrupt in breaking the silence. “Forgiveness doesn’t rewrite the song — it just lets you stop replaying the worst part.”
I turn my head with wide eyes, staring at Dare, running his words through my mind on repeat. Tris and I don’t have to forget everything we’ve been through, and forgiving him won’t erase everything he did, but it does give us a chance to get past it. To build something beautiful for our future.
After a moment, I pick up the phone again. Taking a deep breath, I type out my text carefully.
Raina: I saw your videos. I heard you, Tris.
I set my phone aside gently, as a small, uncertain smile tugs at the corner of my lips. This feels right; Tristan and I mending things. It’s not forgiveness yet, but it’s the first step.
The sharp ping of a notification cuts through the quiet almost immediately. Tristan’s name flashes across the screen, giving me a slight fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. But I don’t read it. Not yet.
Turning to Dare, I give him a smile of appreciation. He might not have done much, but his simple nudges and support mean the world.
“It’s one of his steps in theI’m-an-asshole recovery program,“ Dare says, pointing to my phone. He’s clearly referring to the videos we watched together.
I let out a small, surprised laugh. It does kinda feel like groveling should be a multiple-step program.“And which step would this be?”I type out.
Dare lets out a hum like he’s thinking. “I’m not sure. Step one is probably admitting you’re an asshole. Step two is to realize you were wrong. Step three has to be getting on your knees and begging for forgiveness.” He winks at me. “I’m sure there’s more. Should we figure them out together?”
I roll my eyes at Dare’s teasing, but warmth blooms in my chest, the kind that spreads like sunshine through the cracks of the clouds. He always knows how to coax a smile out of me, even when my heart feels heavy. I glance down at my phone where Tristan’s message awaits, and the fluttering in my stomach grows into a storm of anticipation and trepidation.
“Step two sounds like it sucks,”I reply, my heart fluttering with the knowledge that this isn’t an exaggeration for Tristan. If I ever get to the point of forgiveness, I imagine the paths he must tread—paths lined with my own pain and betrayal.
But as I glance at my phone, his words still fresh in my mind, a tingle of hope pulses through me. I can choose to mend things. The thought feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
“Do you think he really means it?”I type, half-lost in my thoughts, wondering if the weight of his regret can ever truly translate into something palpable between us. I glance back at Dare, his features softening as he shrugs, leaning back comfortably against the couch’s edge.
“I think he wants it, Raina. The real question is whether you want it in return.” His answer doesn’t dodge the gravity of my emotional chaos. What will it take for me to believe in Tristan again?
I’m not sure what will get me there, but if I’m honest with myself, I want to get to that point.
Outside, the ocean keeps beating—steady, relentless—like the slow pulse of a heart learning to trust again.
I sit there a little longer, phone still warm in my hand, Dare’s quiet presence anchoring me as the wind slips through the open door. For the first time in months, I don’t feel like I’m trapped between what was and what could be. The tide is shifting, it’s slow, patient, unstoppable.
Maybe forgiveness doesn’t come all at once. Maybe it comes like the sea—one wave at a time, softening the sharpest edges until what’s left is something new.
I look down at my phone again. Tristan’s name still glows on the screen, waiting.
This time, I don’t flinch.
The future hums somewhere beyond the surf, a melody still unwritten. And for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to listen.
The moment I step into the rehearsal space, the familiar scent of wood, metal, and dreams swirls around me, wrapping tight like a lingering hug. It’s cluttered—a haphazard mix of instruments and cables that form a chaotic harmony of creativity and noise. Each corner pulses with the unspent energy of our past performances, and my heart races with both anxiety and anticipation. Scanning the room, I catch glimpses of my band members already hard at work, their presence electrifying the air.
Keaton’s busying himself with his drum kit, adjusting the snares and making sure everything is just right. When he looks up, a warm smile breaks across his face, instantly softening the tension coiling in my stomach. He twirls his sticks, and the expression on his face says,You got this. I have faith in you.
I wince.That makes one of us. How can I do this with no voice?
Keaton reads me as easily as he has from the start. He gives me a wink.You’ll find your way.
