Page 272 of Before We Were

It's an acceptance into the writing scholarship program I hadn't applied for.

"I don't understand," I whisper, my voice trembling like autumn leaves. "How did they??—"

"He submitted it for you before he left. Made the deadline by a day before applications closed." Lydia's voice is gentle but weighted with understanding.

"Nate did this?"

Lydia nods, her smile bittersweet.

It shouldn't surprise me—even drowning in his own darkness, he's always been my biggest champion, seeing potential in me when I couldn't see it myself. That thought breaks something loose inside my chest, sending fresh pain cascading through me.

"He asked me to tell you he's sorry he wasn't here to tell you himself. And…" She pauses, weighing her next words carefully. "Nora, he wasn't in a good place while you were in the hospital. I've seen my son in bad places over the years, but this was different. It was terrifying, I honestly thought we were going to—" The words catch in her throat and I'm glad she doesn't finish the sentence.

Tears start falling before I can stop them. Lydia moves closer, wrapping me in her arms like only a mother can, as if she could hold all my broken pieces together.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs. "No one could ever come close to the love my son has for you. You've always been his way back home. I think he needs to do this for himself, so he can find his way back to you."

Her words both soothe and shatter me, because home isn't supposed to feel this empty. I cling to her for a moment longer before she pulls away, squeezing my shoulder.

"Get some rest. If you need anything, just yell out," she says, giving my hand one final squeeze before leaving.

As soon as the door closes, I lay back, staring up at the ceiling like I'm looking up from the bottom of an ocean. One tear escapes, and I let it fall, carrying with it all the words I wish I could say to him.

When I turn my head, something crinkles beneath my pillow. My heart stops when I see the yellow envelope with my name written in Nate’s messy scrawl. My fingers tremble as I open it, revealing a folded piece of paper. The handwriting is unmistakably his—rushed, like the words were burning to get out.

Leni,

I've been staring at this blank page for hours, trying to find the right words.

I'm not good at this like you are.

My thoughts come out messy and tangled, but I'm going to try anyway. I know you're probably reading this feeling confused, hurt—maybe all of it at once.

I don't blame you.

But stay with me, okay?

There was one summer way back, I was fifteen and you were eleven. Do you remember when I was trying to learn "Iris" and you were sitting cross-legged on my bed, pretending to read.

I kept messing up the chords because I was nervous, but you just sat there, patiently, smiling. After that night, I spent weeks practicing when you weren't around, fumbling through those chords until my fingers bled.

I wanted to learn it because it was your favorite. But also because at fifteen, that song said everything I couldn't.

I didn't know how to tell you what you meant to me. How you saw all the parts of me I tried to hide. How you made me want to be seen.

But the song could.

Music is supposed to make sense. It's math and patterns, structure and rules. But then there are these moments—these perfect, unexplainable moments—when two notes shouldn't work together, but they do. They create something that breaks all the rules but sounds exactly right.

That's what we are. We're that impossible harmony.

Look under your bed.

There's a box and inside is a CD I made you—track 18 says everything I wish I could tell you face to face.

I guess some things are easier to say through music. At least that's how it's always been for us.

Nora, you've always been the song I can't get out of my head. Because you’ve been my favorite everything for as long as I can remember. When everything in my head gets too loud, when all I hear is noise, you're the melody that cuts through it all. You hear the music in me even when I'm out of tune. You make me want to be better. To be the person you somehow believe I am.

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