The Sound of Forever

Chapter 42

Chapter Forty-Two

Keane

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.