We sit in comfortable silence until she brightens with an idea.
"You know what we need? A real girls' night. Just us, and Marcus. I think he’d kill us if we didn’t invite him."
I laugh, feeling lighter. "A sleepover sounds perfect."
I don’t expectanyone to be back at the house when I get home. Jake had texted that he and Ollie were getting pizza, and Lydia and Mom were downtown. Music drifts from the spare living room—Guns N' Roses,"November Rain,"filling the space with nostalgic chords.
I find Nate sprawled on the floor, focused on a jigsaw puzzle scattered across the coffee table, pieces catching the late afternoon light. His brow is furrowed in concentration, fingers moving with unexpected gentleness.
"What are you doing?" I ask, struck by the sight of him—usually so carefully composed—lost in something so simple.
He looks up, a playful smirk crossing his lips. "A puzzle," he answers, his tone suggesting deeper meanings.
"A puzzle? To 'November Rain'?"
"It's cheaper than therapy." His grin broadens into something genuine that makes my heart skip.
"Can I help?"
"Sure."
We settle into comfortable silence, the clink of puzzle pieces filling the room. The tension between us dissolves as we work, like we're rebuilding something lost, finding each missing part of a bigger picture.
"Ever feel like you're missing pieces?" Nate asks, after a minute of silence.
I study his face, wondering if he means more than just the puzzle. "Sometimes," I begin, turning a piece over in my hands. "But I think that's the thing about life—just like a puzzle, we can't force pieces to fit just because we think they should, and sometimes the picture we're trying to create isn't even the one we're meant to make. Maybe the missing pieces aren't really missing at all; they're just not part of our puzzle."
He looks up, his eyes catching mine with an intensity that steals my breath. The soft light paints his face in gold and shadow, making him look both younger and older at once.
"That's... actually profound," he says softly.
"Well, I am a writer,” I smile, half-joking but serious.
"That you are." He lets silence stretch between us before asking, "How's the writing going anyway?"
I fidget with a puzzle piece, avoiding his eyes. "I really think I might have something."
"Is that what you're planning to submit for the scholarship?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "How did you know about that?"
"I saw the application on the table. Wasn't snooping, promise."
"I... I'm not sure I'm ready."
His eyes hold mine, refusing to let go. The heat in my cheeks starts to slowly surface.
How the hell does he do that?
"Being ready is bullshit. You're never truly ready for things that scare you."
"So then how do you know when to go for it?"
"When the thrill outweighs the fear, that's your moment. If it scares you, it's probably worth it." He focuses on the puzzle. "Besides, you're an incredible writer. It's time you believed that."
My heart races. "What if they don't like what I write?"
"Then fuck 'em."
