"What do you mean?"
“We spend so much time being afraid—afraid to love, afraid to lose, afraid to say what we feel—that we forget we're already losing time just by waiting." He squeezes my hand. "The people who wait to tell someone they love them? They're dying a little every day they don't say it."
The words land heavy.
"Is that why you're not afraid?" I ask. "Of dying?"
"I'm not afraid," he says, "because I never waited. I loved Gracie loudly, completely, without holding back. And when she died, I didn't stop loving her—I just kept going, knowing she'd be waiting on the other side."
"That's a pretty good reason."
"It is." His grip tightens slightly. "Love doesn't end, Nate. It just waits. And she's been waiting a hell of a long time for me."
His voice sounds different this time.
Like he's not talking about someday anymore.
Like he's talking about soon.
"Don't wait," he says, and his eyes find mine with unexpected intensity. "Whatever you're holding back, whoever you're afraid to tell—don't wait. Because the hardest thing in life isn't dying. It's realizing you ran out of time to say what mattered most."
I sit beside Alfie, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Silence used to feel like a threat—like something ugly was waiting for me in it. Now it just sits with me. And sometimes, in that stillness, I can hear the echoes of the people I've loved most.
Not as ghosts, but as reminders.
Alfie shifts slightly in his chair, his grip on my hand tightening for a moment before relaxing again. His skin feels thinner than it used to, more fragile, but the warmth is still there. And I hold on just a little longer than necessary, because my body knows something my mind isn't ready to accept yet.
I don't say goodbye.
Instead, I tell him I'll be back next Thursday, even though we both understand the quiet uncertainty wrapped inside that promise.
Some truths don't need to be spoken to be understood.
CHAPTER 3
FAME AND FORTUNE
NATE
Tommy's placeis on the second-floor walk-up. I knock once and wait.
A guitar is being tuned on the other side of the door—soft, distracted notes, like he's not really listening to himself.
He never answers right away.
When the door opens, he doesn't look surprised to see me. Just tired. Like he hoped I wouldn't come, but knew I would anyway.
"Thought you'd be at the studio," he says, stepping aside.
"I was," I tell him. "Now I'm here."
The apartment smells like cigarettes and take out. Empty pizza boxes lean against the wall, their lids scrawled with half-finished riffs and chord progressions. A coffee mug overflows with cigarette butts.
There's talent in this room—real talent—buried under neglect like it's been there too long.
I take it in without comment because judgment never helps.
Tommy drops onto the couch, guitar already in his hands. His fingers move automatically, confident even when the rest of him isn't. He plays without looking at the strings, like he hears something the rest of us don't.
