Page 1 of The Sound of Forever
Prologue
Julianna
Losing someone. . . losingyourself. . . losing your identity is like watching the foundation of your life crumble beneath you, piece by irretrievable piece. Grief doesn’t just steal the person or the life you knew. It steals the version of you that existed with them. And what’s left behind feels wrong, unrecognizable.
But I’ve learned that losing doesn’t mean disappearing. It doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means transforming. It means sitting with the hollow spaces long enough to understand that they are not voids to be feared but spaces waiting to be filled—by you, by the person you’re becoming.
Losing your identity isn’t the end of who you are. It’s an invitation to find out who you can be. It’s terrifying, yes, but also liberating. When the old mirrors shatter, you realize you can finally stop searching for yourself in the reflections of others. You begin to see yourself in the rawness of the present moment, in the choices you make when no one else is watching.
This isn’t about moving on or letting go. It’s about pivoting into the unknown and realizing that while you’ve lost pieces of yourself, you haven’t lost the ability to create. To rebuild. To choose. You are not the person you were before, and that is both the grief and the gift. Because in the ruins of who you were, there’s space to become something new, something resilient, something whole.
And that’s when the mourning comes—when you sit in the quiet aftermath of what’s been lost and begin to truly feel its weight. Mourning isn’t just about the person or identity you’ve lost. It’s about reckoning with the pieces of yourself that no longer fit and finding the courage to see what’s left.
And here’s another truth. Grief can be your guide. It teaches you that you have to live in the present. The only thing you truly own isthismoment. Not the past. Not the imagined future. Just the now.
In mourning, you learn to pivot—not because the pain vanishes, but because you realize you must. Life demands it. And in that pivot, you start to understand that control isn’t about shaping what’s outside of you. It’s about how you respond to it, how you breathe through the ache. How you soften instead of harden. How you choose to see the world, even when it feels impossible to look at.
What saved me wasn’t the absence of pain but the presence of small, profound gifts I never noticed before. The first rays of sunshine as the day begins. The way rain sounds like music if you let it. The laughter of strangers on the street. The reminder that joy still exists, even if it feels distant. These moments became everything because they reminded me that even in mourning, the world gives.
It always gives.
The trick is keeping your eyes open long enough to see it. To meet the world halfway. To stop wrestling with the loss long enough to notice what’s still here. Grief may have stolen my yesterdays, but today is mine. And I choose to live in it—not perfectly, not without pain, but fully. Because life, even fractured, still holds more beauty than we can ever repay.
ChapterOne
Keane
DayOne
I don’t know how to do this, or who I’m even writing to. My brother? Ophelia? The gaping void where my parents should have been? Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. Probably just myself.
I used to pour it all out—my thoughts, my pain, my fucking agony—into music. Into notes and lyrics that burned through me like wildfire. When music stopped being enough, I turned to my father’s stash of drugs and the liquor they had at home. It was easy. Too easy. Until it wasn’t.
Six years ago, life crashed into me like a head-on collision. Only the brakes never worked. An accident stole my future and left me in a coma. Five years. Five entire years gone, stolen, leaving nothing but a blank space where my life should’ve been.
Now, a year after waking up, I’m on the precipice of something new, but my body doesn’t feel like mine, and my mind is splintered. Rowan, my brother, thought Luna Recovery & Restoration might help me not going back to my old habits while I’m trying to recover.
So here I am, in a ninety-day program.
Ninety days.
Just ninety days to claw through the wreckage and see if there’s anything worth saving. The center is in Silverthorne Bay, a picturesque town near the base of the Olympic Mountains. It sounds like a dream, but I’m not the kind of person who belongs in dreams.
Here, they promise therapies to tame the craving, to keep me from spiraling back into the man I was—a man I can’t stand to look at anymore. Group sessions. Yoga. Holistic breathing. Shit I can barely spell, let alone believe will work. And journaling. Journaling. This is supposed to help me.
And yet, here I am. Writing. Writing because it’s either this or screaming into the void. Writing because I have nothing else.
But even as I write, I can feel her ghost at the edges of my mind. Ophelia. Philly. The woman I loved, broke, and had to let go. She’s the absence I can’t fill, the memory I can’t drown.
This is all I have and I’m not sure if I’m going to survive.
ChapterTwo
Keane
DayThree
Journaling isn’t catharsis. It’s cruelty.
