Ripped out.
I frown, running my fingers over the unevenness. What was there? Why did he take it out?
Maybe they were just lyrics. Maybe they weren’t meant to be found. Or maybe—maybe he wasn’t ready for someone else to read them.
Still, I tuck the journal into the crook of my arm.
I’ll keep it.
Not just because it’s his.
But because somewhere in those pages—ripped or not—he’s still with me.
The people we lose don’t really leave us—they just become quieter, softer. They live on in pages, in echoes, in the spaces they helped build inside us.
I glance around the room one last time, no longer afraid to be in it.
Then I walk out.
Not empty.
Not broken.
But carrying him forward—
One heartbeat at a time.
The floor creaks as I step into the kitchen.
Sunlight spills through the windows, catching on the worn wooden table and casting long shadows across the floor. The smell of coffee wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.
Chace stands by the counter, hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, two mugs in hand. His green eyes lift to meet mine, and a slow smile curves his lips.
“Hey, Mac,” he says, offering me one of the mugs. “Sam’s out on a run. Trey’s outside, probably swearing at our manager over the phone.”
I take the mug, my fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic.
“Thanks.”
Chace nods toward the table, and I follow, settling into one of the chairs. The silence isn’t heavy. It’s comfortable—the kind that only comes when people have seen your mess and choose to stay anyway.
I take a sip, letting the heat settle into my chest before I speak.
“I just went into Braden’s room.”
Chace pauses, lowering himself into the chair across from me. His brows lift, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“For the first time since I got home.”
A beat. Two.
“And… I feel good,” I say, surprised by the truth of it. “Lighter, even.”
Chace’s smile softens. “That’s what he’d want, you know.”
I nod, staring down into the swirl of coffee in my cup.
“I think… I’m starting to feel him again. Not just the loss of him. But him.”
