Page 155 of Before We Were

"I guess that makes sense," I say slowly, following his train of thought.

Alfie nods, settling back in his chair. "Now imagine taking the objects out of a room, one by one. The first thing you notice is the absence—you miss what you've taken away. But then, you start noticing what's left more than ever before."

I lean in, hanging onto his words, feeling like he's offering me a key to a door I've been afraid to open.

"You see, when things are taken from us, what remains takes on greater value," he continues, his voice steady. "If there's a chessboard in that nearly empty room, you're far more likely to play chess. Loss teaches us to focus on what's still here. What we lose in breadth, we gain in depth. The thing with love is, it’s a risk. We open our hearts knowing they'll eventually break. But that's the paradox of it all: the very thing that makes love terrifying is what makes it extraordinary.”

“Every heartbeat we share with another is both a countdown and a gift, each moment precious because it cannot last. To love is to dance on the edge of loss. But to never love? That's like keeping a bird in its cage, wings folded, never knowing the glory of flight. Better to soar and fall than to never leave the ground. Because sometimes, in the space between holding on and letting go, we find pieces of ourselves we never knew were missing.”

His words settle over me like truth itself, filling the room with unspoken understanding. I nod slowly, feeling as though something deep within me has shifted.

"I hope someday I can write something that'll mean as much as her story means to you," I say, almost to myself.

Alfie's eyes soften, and he smiles—the kind of smile that feels like a blessing.

"You already have, Nora. And you will again. You have the heart for it—just don't ever stop letting it lead you." He pauses, his voice gentling. "Most of the time writing isn't about saying the right thing. It's about letting yourself say what's real. Just give yourself permission to feel and the words will come."

He's right.

When I write, I'm facing my fears—my anxieties, my feelings. I'm putting them into words, giving them life, acknowledging their existence. Just like with Nate, maybe it's not about finding the perfect words, but about being brave enough to speak the truth.

I don't think Alfie realises the gift he's given me. It's more than just wisdom about writing—it's a glimpse of the kind of love and purpose I've always dreamed of. And for the first time in a long while, it feels possible. Maybe that's why, when I finally leave the bookstore, my steps are lighter despite the weight of everything unsaid between me and Nate.

The universe, it seems, has other plans for my newfound peace.

When I arrive home, I hear something unexpected—music. Not just any music, but the familiar strum of a guitar and Nate's voice humming along. The melody pulls me in like a siren song, and before I can stop myself, I'm following it down the hall.

I find him in his room, shirtless, his back to the open door. Sunlight streams through the window, painting golden stripes across his skin as his fingers dance over the strings.

"I haven't heard that song before," I say softly. My voice startles him; his fingers freeze on the strings as he turns. Something flashes in his eyes—raw and vulnerable—before he blinks it away, like shuttering a window against a storm.

"Didn't realize you were home," he mutters, fidgeting with the pick between his fingers. The casual gesture belies the tension suddenly thrumming in the air between us.

There's a flicker of something in his voice—desperation maybe, or resignation—and it catches me off guard. His eyes meet mine, searching, like he's trying to gauge whether I'll push or let this moment slip away like all the others. I step closer, drawn by whatever's crackling in the space between us.

"Nick asked me to play on opening night," he says finally, the words falling like stones in still water.

"Are you going to do it?"

He sighs, shoulders heavy with something more than just uncertainty.

"Not sure yet. Been forever since I played for anyone, let alone a crowd."

"Could've fooled me." The corner of his mouth lifts slightly—almost a thank you for noticing what he never says out loud.

"We'll see," he murmurs, trying to brush it off like it doesn't matter. But I know it does.

He's been tiptoeing around me for days, and I'm tired of this dance. My emotions are frayed, patience worn thin by his constant hot-and-cold routine. Taking a deep breath, I ignore my thundering heart and just say it.

"Can we talk about the other night?"

The question hangs between us, heavy as summer storm clouds. He doesn't answer right away. His fingers move absently over the guitar strings, the notes muted like his voice. Then he drags a hand through his hair—a gesture I know means he's wrestling with something he doesn't want to say.

"Nora, I just..." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I can't do this." He gestures between us, his hand slicing through the air like he's trying to sever whatever thread still connects us.

"This. Us. Whatever it is, or isn't. I can't."

The words steal the air from my lungs. My mind races, replaying every moment, every look, every lingering touch that led us here. And now, just like always, we're back to square one.

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