Page 41 of The Sound of Forever
Day. . . feels like five hundred and ninety since I began journaling.
I don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore. Yesterday’s breakfast with Julianna and Rayne was . . . different. Different in a way that’s stuck with me, replaying in my head like an old song I can’t shake.
Never in my life have I cooked a meal for anyone other than myself. Before the coma, it didn’t even cross my mind to prepare anything for me. Not even a sandwich. Why bother when there were always takeout menus, personal chefs, or Philly?
Philly, who tried so hard to pull me into her world of home-cooked meals, who fought for something I was too selfish to see the value in at the time.
I’d offer takeout, shrug it off like it was no big deal. She’d refuse, every single time, saying homemade meals mattered. I never understood that then—how much it meant to prepare something together, and then share something made with care. Now I do.
Watching Rayne smile as Julianna cut her pancakes into perfect squares, it hit me. Hard. Home-cooked meals aren’t about the food. They’re about love disguised as small acts. About showing someone they matter.
Rayne’s laughter, her smudged chin covered in syrup, was like a glimpse of something I didn’t think I’d ever see in my lifetime. Something I wanted to deny myself. It wasn’t just the food—it was the way Julianna created a space that felt safe, even for someone as guarded as me.
And then there’s Julianna.
She moves through her own pain with a grace that doesn’t feel fair. How does she manage it? Her eyes carry exhaustion, but her smile—when it’s for Rayne—softens everything. It’s not just strength. It’s probably resilience, maybe. Or hope.
Julianna told me I should come by more often. That Rayne likes having me around. The idea of being needed, of being wanted, is both comforting and terrifying. I didn’t know what to say, so I said I’d think about it. And I am.
I’ve spent so much of my life running—first from the expectations that came with my name, then from my failures, and finally from the emptiness that’s been following me ever since I woke up in that hospital bed. But yesterday, sitting at that table, I didn’t feel like I was running.
I felt . . . present.
That scares me more than anything.
But maybe it shouldn’t.
Maybe I should learn to forgive myself and let go of my past.
ChapterForty-Three
Keane
Another day,another entry . . .
I’m not sure if practicing yoga with Julianna—Jules, as Zeke calls her—is a good idea. Or maybe it’s too good of an idea, which is the real problem.
Every morning, we go through the flow, matching our breaths to the rhythm of the poses. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Except I don’t fucking breathe the way I’m supposed to. Not when she’s near me.
She moves around me, correcting my posture with the lightest touch—her hands brushing against my shoulders or guiding my arms. Every time she does, I hold my breath.
It’s not just the touch, though that alone is enough to undo me. It’s her. The way her hair escapes from her braid, the loose strands catching the morning light. The faint scent of her—something soft, floral, and maddeningly subtle—lingers in the air, wrapping around me like a memory I can’t quite place.
And her voice. Fuck, her voice. It’s calm, patient, but there’s something about it that pulls at me. Like it’s not just my posture she’s trying to fix, but my broken soul too.
She’s always so close, yet I feel like I’m a world away. I’m distracted by every little thing—how her lips purse in concentration as she demonstrates a pose, how her fingers tap lightly against her thigh when she’s thinking. It’s like every movement is a small piece of her she doesn’t realize she’s giving away.
I try not to stare, but it’s impossible not to notice the curve of her smile when she catches me wobbling mid-pose, or the way her laugh softens when Rayne joins us outside, claiming her spot on the swing like it’s her throne.
Jules doesn’t just move. She exists. She gives life to everything around her. She lives fully. She’s so present in every moment. So in tune with everything around her. It’s magnetic. I’ve never met anyone like her, and it terrifies me how much I crave the time we spend together.
Because the truth is, it’s not just yoga. It’s her.
It’s the way she glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking, like she’s trying to figure me out. It’s the way she talks to Rayne, her voice shifting into something even softer, something that feels like safety.
And it’s the way I feel when I’m with her—like I’m not a total mess. Like maybe there’s a version of me she could see as whole.
Every time her hand lingers a little too long or her gaze meets mine for just a second too much, my heart trips over itself, and I wonder if she feels it too.
