Page 200 of Before We Were

I couldn't give up on him even if I tried.

"Actually, before I forget," Lydia says, straightening up, "Nate left his phone here this morning. It's been ringing nonstop. If you're heading to Sonder, would you mind taking it to him? It's driving me crazy."

"Of course," I say, standing. My chair scrapes against the floor, breaking our intimate moment's spell.

She hands me the phone with a grateful smile, and I tuck it into my pocket, noticing how her gaze follows the movement. There's something in her eyes, something more she wants to say.

"Thank you, love," Lydia says, her eyes lingering on me with an intensity that makes me wonder what she sees. But she doesn't elaborate, and I don't press.

Nate might not make things easy, but neither does life. And maybe that's the point—to find the people worth fighting for, even when it's hard. Even when they don't know how to ask for help, or when they push you away thinking it's for the best.

The guitar'smelody reaches me before I even step inside Sonder—a soft, mournful sound that wraps around my heart and squeezes. My pulse quickens because I know exactly who's playing. I'd recognize his music anywhere.

I slip inside quietly, letting the door click shut behind me. The place is unrecognizable from my last visit. Leather booths stretch along the walls, tabletops gleam with newness, and the bar stands fully stocked, rows of bottles catching light like captured stars. But my eyes are drawn to the stage, where a single spotlight creates an island of warmth in the dim room.

And there he is.

Nate sits perched on a battered water cooler, guitar cradled against his chest like something precious. His head bows over it in complete absorption, dark hair falling across his forehead, creating shadows that dance across his face. His fingers move across the strings with a reverence I've never seen him show anyone else, plucking each note with precision and care, as if he's speaking a language only he understands.

There's something achingly vulnerable about the way he plays, how completely he gives himself to the music. It's not just a performance—it's confession. Each chord seems to pull something from deep within him, revealing layers I rarely get to see. Here, he's not Nate Sullivan, the captain of the football team, the guy everyone leans on, the one carrying burdens too heavy for his shoulders.

He's just… Nate.

Raw and real and breathtakingly honest.

The connection between him and the instrument feels visceral—they breathe together, move together, speak together in a language of wood and wire and want.

For a moment, I feel like I'm witnessing something sacred, something not meant for anyone else's eyes. He's completely lost in the music, his face softening, as if every note releases another piece of armor he usually wears. The burdens he carries seem to slip away, leaving only the boy who found salvation in six strings because music was the one thing that couldn't betray him. Every movement flows naturally, as if the guitar isn't just an instrument but a part of him. He's not playing it; he's bearing his soul through it.

"What song was that?" I interrupt softly, almost afraid to break the spell.

His head snaps up, eyes finding mine with startling intensity. There's no embarrassment at being caught in this vulnerable moment; instead, something almost relieved flickers across his expression.

"It's uhh… something I wrote," he says, flashing me a smile that makes my knees weak with its authenticity.

"Really?" My voice wavers slightly as our eyes lock, electricity crackling in the space between us.

"Do you like it?"

"I… I love it. It's really beautiful, Nate." The words feel inadequate for what I've just witnessed.

"Good," he says, his fingers pausing on the strings while his eyes hold mine, soft and intense all at once, as if he's trying to tell me something words can't express. "You inspired it."

The confession hits me square in the chest, stealing my breath. "Me?"

"I always wanted a muse." His lips curve into a gentle smile that holds too many emotions to name.

I stand there, rooted to the spot as he resumes playing. I see it then—the moment he truly loses himself in the music. He's just a boy with a guitar, free from the weight of expectations and past mistakes.

No baggage, no pain.

The boy I fell in love with all those years ago, before life taught us both how to build walls.

I shake myself out of the trance as the last chord fades and pull his phone from my pocket. I walk toward him, trying to ignore how each step closer makes my heart beat faster.

"You forgot your phone at home," I say, holding it out.

When he takes it, his fingers brush mine, sending sparks across my skin. He stares at the screen momentarily, and something dark passes across his face like storm clouds gathering. He does a good job hiding whatever has him ticked, but I've known him too long not to notice.

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