Page 274 of Before We Were

In the darkest parts, there you are…"

His voice wraps around me like a familiar embrace, and I almost feel his presence beside me, singing these words that feel like they've been pulled straight from his soul. The piano builds as he continues.

"So hear me when I say,

I know your soul I'll be your home.

Until you can breathe on your own…"

Each word feels like it's being carved directly into my heart. This isn't just a song—it's every moment we've shared, every silent understanding, every time he looked at me like I was his entire world.

And yet, it's not enough to drown out the ache, the hollow, gnawing pain of his absence. The memory of him is both a comfort and a curse—a reminder of what we had and what we've lost. He might love me, maybe even more than I'll ever fully understand. The evidence is right here, in every carefully chosen song, in every word he's written, in this melody that feels like it's been orchestrated straight from his heart.

The conflict claws at me, my heart pulling me toward him even as my mind warns me to let go. I close my eyes, exhaling shakily as the question I've been avoiding rises to the surface, bitter and unavoidable.

How long am I supposed to keep waiting for someone who might never come back?

Even if he's written our love into the stars themselves, even if he's left pieces of his heart scattered around me like breadcrumbs leading home.

Morning sun filtersthrough the trees as Jake and I glide down the familiar stretch of road, the rhythmic hum of bike tires on asphalt filling the space between us. It feels like a lifetime since I felt this alive, since I let my legs push against the pedals with purpose.

Jake rides beside me, his protective gaze catching every bump in the road before I do. I insisted on this ride. I needed something to remind me of who I was before life got so complicated. And Jake, as always, didn't argue. He never does when it's something I need.

Corrigan's Bakery appears ahead, the smell of cinnamon and sugar wrapping around us like a warm hug from the past. The sign above the door still reads, "Best Cinnabons in Town" in bold cursive letters, though they're probably the only cinnabons within fifty miles.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of fresh pastries, the cozy café humming with low chatter and clinking mugs. Jake orders without asking—two cinnabons and two vanilla lattes, our usual. The cashier's smile holds recognition, like she's missed seeing us together in this familiar dance.

We settle at our corner table by the window. Jake takes an exaggerated bite of his cinnabon, making his typical face of pure bliss, trying to coax a smile from me like he always has. It works, and for a second, everything feels like it used to—before Nate, before the accident, before everything got so beautifully and terribly complicated.

But then his expression shifts. Something heavy settles in his eye, looking at me like he's been carrying these words for too long.

"Stay in Boston," he pleads, his voice soft but insistent. His fingers twitch before reaching across the table for mine. The touch is familiar yet foreign, comfort tangled with guilt. "We can figure this out together if you're willing to give this," he gestures between us, "a real shot. I'll start working for Dad, and you can keep writing, keep going to school."

His eyes search mine, filled with an earnestness that makes my chest ache.

"Nora, we could be something fucking amazing." The weight of his next words settles over us like snow. "You're still my person, even if I'm not yours. I just want a chance to love you the way you deserve to be loved."

The light catches his face just right, highlighting all the features that make him Jake—the kindness in his eyes, the hopeful curve of his smile, the steadfast devotion that's never wavered.

For a moment, I let myself imagine it: a life with Jake, safe and sure and uncomplicated. But then Nate's face flashes in my mind, and my heart twists with the kind of longing that feels like the last note of a song hanging in the air, desperate to keep playing.

I stare at him, trying to make myself feel what he wants me to. I try to picture the future he's describing—the ease, the comfort, the predictability. A life mapped out in careful pencil strokes, each detail considered, each step planned. It's safe, steady, and so perfectly Jake. But the harder I try to make it fit, the more suffocating it feels, like trying to force myself into a shape that was never meant for me.

His words hang in the air between us, and suddenly, the truth hits me like a cold wave. He doesn't see the girl who's been clawing her way back from the edge, who's still figuring out how to exist in a world that nearly swallowed her whole. He sees what he wants to fix, not what makes me whole.

"Jake…" My voice is quiet but firm. I shake my head slowly, then with more conviction. "I can't."

His face falls, and guilt surges through me, sharp and unrelenting.

"Why?" he asks, his voice tight. "Why won't you give me a shot, Nora? We could have everything. I have it all figured out."

"I know you mean that," I say, my throat tightening. "And I love you for wanting this. But I can't give you what you're asking for. I'm not ready to commit to something—or someone—when I don't even know who I am right now."

It’s the honest truth.

His jaw tightens, hurt flickering across his face. He leans forward, his words sharp and low. "If it was him sitting here, asking you for all of this, you wouldn't hesitate."

The air leaves my lungs. My silence hangs heavy between us, and Jake exhales sharply, defeat written in every line of his body.

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