Page 115 of Before We Were

I let that sink in for a moment.

"That's some stoic shit," I mutter, earning a laugh from him.

"Well, that's what 'sonder' is. It's the realization that every person you see has a life as full and complicated as your own."

We keep working for a few more hours, hauling junk, clearing out old furniture, getting the place ready for its transformation. My muscles ache, but there's something satisfying about it—physical work that pulls me out of my head for a while.

Nick heads to the back, leaving me to wander until my eyes land on something. A guitar case, half-hidden in the corner of the unfinished stage, like a ghost from my past waiting to be discovered. My fingers twitch with muscle memory. Nora's question from earlier echoes in my mind:"Why do you love music?"

It's been so long since I've even touched a guitar. I think about that night two weeks ago, fitting puzzle pieces together listening toNovember Rain. The way she'd looked at me when she asked if I still played, her eyes lighting up with something between curiosity and challenge.

I'd linked my pinky with hers, thinking it was just another throwaway moment. But something about the way she'd smiled afterward, like she'd won something precious, had lodged itself in my chest.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm crossing the room and flipping open the case. An acoustic, pre-loved but well-maintained. I run my fingers along the strings, feeling the vibrations ripple through me like electricity. I strum a chord, then another. The sound fills the empty bar, soft but resonant, and before I know it, I'm playing a melody I wrote when I was sixteen.

For a moment, everything else fades—the noise in my head, the pressure in my chest, the weight of all my secrets. It's just me and the guitar, the music grounding me in a way nothing else ever could.

I made a pinky promise. And I'm starting to realize that any promise I make to Nora, I want to keep. No matter how small. Because each one feels like a step toward something real, something I can't name yet but know I've been missing. Something worth fighting for.

"Nate."

Nick's voice pulls me back to reality, and I stop, guilt flashing through me like lightning.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to touch??—"

Nick shakes his head, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "That's what it's there for. Sounds like you've been playing for a while."

I set the guitar down carefully, scratching the back of my neck where tension coils.

"I used to. But I don't anymore." I take a deep breath, the memories rising like smoke from a dying fire.

"Nora's dad got me my first guitar, for my tenth birthday. I started teaching myself how to play, learning chords, and reading music. It became my escape." I pause, swallowing the bitter taste that comes with the memory. "But my dad... he hated it. Thought it was a waste of time."

The memory of Scott slamming through the door that night comes back to me, sharp as broken glass. He was drunk, rage rolling off him in waves. The sound of me playing set him off. He walked right into my room, grabbed the guitar, and smashed it to pieces like he was trying to break more than just wood and strings.

"You think strumming a fucking guitar is your future? I don't pay school fees so you can fuck around. Stop wasting your time with this shit." His words still echo in my head, sharp and cruel as the day he spat them at me.

I never picked up a guitar again after that.

"I stopped playing to focus on school and football," I add, my voice hollow as an empty promise.

Nick gives me a look, one that says he's reading more into my words than I'm letting on. "Well, I think you should try picking it up again."

I shake my head, pushing away the temptation. "I don't own a guitar anymore."

He gestures toward the one I was just playing. "That one's been sitting there, collecting dust for God knows how long."

"It's not really my thing anymore."

Nick studies me for a moment, then sets down the box he's carrying.

"Look, Nate. I don't know you all that well, but I know talent when I see it. And trust me, you've got it." He puts a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it steady and grounding. "Don't let your father's version of your life be the one you end up actually living. You owe it to yourself to choose your own path in this lifetime."

I look away, swallowing hard against the truth in his words. He's right, but it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.

"Sometimes healing means reopening old wounds, taking a good look at them so you can finally let them close for good."

"What if the wounds run too deep?" I ask before I can stop myself.

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