78. Choices
CHAPTER 78
CHOICES
NORA
Everything is too loud and too quiet all at once, like someone's turned up the volume on reality while muting everything that matters. Mom and Lydia hover as they help me from the car, their touches gentle but somehow amplifying the hollow space inside me. I've come back to a life that feels like watching my favorite movie with all the scenes scrambled—familiar but fundamentally wrong.
Jake and Ollie wait on the porch, and the sight twists something raw beneath my ribs. Behind them, Mia, Camilla, and Marcus clutch an oversized teddy bear and balloons declaring 'Welcome Home' in mockingly cheerful letters.
It's overwhelming, but I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile and let them welcome me back to a home that doesn't feel like mine anymore.
Camilla reaches me first, arms outstretched. When she hugs me, pain radiates through my side like lightning, drawing a sharp flinch. Her face drains of color as she pulls back.
"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"
"It's fine," I lie, because that's what you do when people are trying so hard to make things normal. You pretend. You smile. You swallow the pain until it settles somewhere deep inside where no one can see it.
She studies my face for a moment, tears glistening in her usually bright eyes, before pulling me into another hug, this one gentle as a whisper.
"I'm so glad you're okay. Please, for the love of God, don't you ever scare me like that again. I just got you in this life." Her voice cracks on the last words, and for the first time since I've known her, I hear Camilla cry.
Marcus steps forward, dramatically shaking his head. "Yeah, seriously. Between worrying about you and worrying about her worrying about you, I'm about to have a stress-induced cardiac arrest."
A small laugh escapes despite everything.
"For real though," he says, wrapping me in a careful hug. "We missed you."
"Stop hogging her, Marcus," Mia interrupts, stepping up for her turn. "I'm so happy you're home."
"Me too." I smile, but it feels like wearing someone else's clothes—not quite right, not quite mine.
The laughter fades quickly, and is replaced by that gnawing emptiness that follows me like a second shadow as I glance around at their relieved faces. But there's one face missing—the one that haunts my dreams and fills the spaces between my heartbeats. The one I need more than air.
"Where's Nick?" I ask, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.
Mom exchanges a quick look with Lydia that makes my stomach turn. "He had a family emergency to take care of."
"Oh. Is Alfie okay?" Dread curls through my veins like poison.
Mom's reply comes too quick, too rehearsed. "Alfie's fine, honey."
My heart pounds against my ribs as realization hits. Nick doesn't have any other family. There's only one person he'd drop everything for.
Nate.
The thought of his name alone makes my chest constrict until breathing becomes a conscious effort. I've tried calling him. Texting him. Begging the universe to make my phone light up with his name. Nothing but silence.
I force myself to stay calm, to keep my voice steady as I turn to Camilla. "Have you or Jay heard from Nate?"
She hesitates, choosing her words with surgical precision. "Jay mentioned he was going away for a while."
The words hit like shattered glass.
"He's going away?" My voice splinters. "What do you mean? Where's he going?"
Panic flashes across Camilla's face as she stumbles over her words. "I—I don't know. Jay's been really hush-hush about it. He just said Nate needed to get out of town for a while."
The ground shifts beneath me, my legs threatening to give out. The truth crashes over me like a wave of ice water. Nate is gone. He left without a word. Without answering my calls. Without giving me a reason why.
I feel their eyes on me—Jake, Camilla, Marcus, all of them—watching, waiting for me to say something, but I can't find words in the wreckage of my heart. My chest feels hollow, like someone has carved out everything inside me and left nothing but echoes.
He left. He left me .
And somehow, that hurts worse than any of my injuries.
The dim light in my room does little to soften the storm of emotions swirling around me. I sit cross-legged on my bed, fingers absently stroking Bones' worn fur. Each breath feels like learning how to exist in a world that's shifted three degrees sideways. A soft knock breaks through my thoughts. Lydia appears in the doorway, her presence gentle but steady.
"Hey, sweetie," she says softly. "Are you doing okay?"
We both know I'm not, but I manage a small nod. She steps inside, holding a white envelope.
"This came for you last week. I was waiting for the right time."
Curiosity flickers through the fog in my mind. The bold, official-looking logo catches my eye as I take it from her. My heart stumbles over its own rhythm as I pull out the crisp letter.
The words blur as I read and re-read them.
Congratulations! You have been accepted.
It's an acceptance into the writing scholarship program I hadn't applied for.
"I don't understand," I whisper, my voice trembling like autumn leaves. "How did they??—"
"He submitted it for you before he left. Made the deadline by a day before applications closed." Lydia's voice is gentle but weighted with understanding.
"Nate did this?"
Lydia nods, her smile bittersweet.
It shouldn't surprise me—even drowning in his own darkness, he's always been my biggest champion, seeing potential in me when I couldn't see it myself. That thought breaks something loose inside my chest, sending fresh pain cascading through me.
"He asked me to tell you he's sorry he wasn't here to tell you himself. And…" She pauses, weighing her next words carefully. "Nora, he wasn't in a good place while you were in the hospital. I've seen my son in bad places over the years, but this was different. It was terrifying, I honestly thought we were going to—" The words catch in her throat and I'm glad she doesn't finish the sentence.
Tears start falling before I can stop them. Lydia moves closer, wrapping me in her arms like only a mother can, as if she could hold all my broken pieces together.
"Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs. "No one could ever come close to the love my son has for you. You've always been his way back home. I think he needs to do this for himself, so he can find his way back to you."
Her words both soothe and shatter me, because home isn't supposed to feel this empty. I cling to her for a moment longer before she pulls away, squeezing my shoulder.
"Get some rest. If you need anything, just yell out," she says, giving my hand one final squeeze before leaving.
As soon as the door closes, I lay back, staring up at the ceiling like I'm looking up from the bottom of an ocean. One tear escapes, and I let it fall, carrying with it all the words I wish I could say to him.
When I turn my head, something crinkles beneath my pillow. My heart stops when I see the yellow envelope with my name written in Nate’s messy scrawl. My fingers tremble as I open it, revealing a folded piece of paper. The handwriting is unmistakably his—rushed, like the words were burning to get out.
Leni,
I've been staring at this blank page for hours, trying to find the right words.
I'm not good at this like you are.
My thoughts come out messy and tangled, but I'm going to try anyway. I know you're probably reading this feeling confused, hurt—maybe all of it at once.
I don't blame you.
But stay with me, okay?
There was one summer way back, I was fifteen and you were eleven. Do you remember when I was trying to learn "Iris" and you were sitting cross-legged on my bed, pretending to read.
I kept messing up the chords because I was nervous, but you just sat there, patiently, smiling. After that night, I spent weeks practicing when you weren't around, fumbling through those chords until my fingers bled.
I wanted to learn it because it was your favorite. But also because at fifteen, that song said everything I couldn't.
I didn't know how to tell you what you meant to me. How you saw all the parts of me I tried to hide. How you made me want to be seen.
But the song could.
Music is supposed to make sense. It's math and patterns, structure and rules. But then there are these moments—these perfect, unexplainable moments—when two notes shouldn't work together, but they do. They create something that breaks all the rules but sounds exactly right.
That's what we are. We're that impossible harmony.
Look under your bed.
There's a box and inside is a CD I made you—track 18 says everything I wish I could tell you face to face.
I guess some things are easier to say through music. At least that's how it's always been for us.
Nora, you've always been the song I can't get out of my head. Because you’ve been my favorite everything for as long as I can remember. When everything in my head gets too loud, when all I hear is noise, you're the melody that cuts through it all. You hear the music in me even when I'm out of tune. You make me want to be better. To be the person you somehow believe I am.
You're my muse, Leni.
Not just for the songs I'll one day write—though every single one will probably be about you in some way—but for who I want to be. You inspire the best parts of me, the parts I didn't even know existed.
Go to London.
Chase those dreams you've had since you were a kid. Write those stories that live in your head. Show the world what I've always seen in you. Do it all so one day I can say ‘told you so.’
I'll find my way back to you when I'm someone who deserves the way you look at me.
I know I have no right to ask anything of you. But maybe think of this like one of those long instrumental breaks in your favorite songs—the ones that feel like they're taking you somewhere new, but always lead you back to the melody you know by heart.
Please don't hate me. (Though I wouldn’t blame you if you did.)
N.
P.S. That first story you ever wrote, about Daisy and Archer? It's still my favorite. Always will be.
Tears stream down my cheeks, hot and relentless, carving paths of grief across my skin.
How could he ask that of me?
How could he think, after everything, that hate could ever touch what I feel for him?
Even now, with his absence burning a hole in my chest, hate is the furthest thing from what I feel.
If anything, I love him more—love him with the kind of desperation that makes stars collide and universes bend.
This isn't just a goodbye letter—it's Nate laying his soul bare on paper, showing me all the pieces of his heart that belong to me, even as he walks away.
My hands tremble as I reach under the bed, finding a blue box. Fresh tears blur my vision when I open it and find my first discman covered in stickers—the one I thought I'd lost years ago. Next to it lies a CD labeled "Nora's Mixtape #17 V2" .
But what breaks me completely is what remains in the box: "Daisy and Archer's Adventures."
This whole time, he kept it.
A teardrop falls onto the worn cover.
On the first page, there's a post-it note in his messy scrawl:
Still my favorite.
Three words that somehow hold the weight of our entire history.
I set aside the box and take the CD and discman onto my bed, hands shaking as I put on the headphones. My heart races as I hit play.
"Take Me Away" by Lifehouse fills my ears, followed by “Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd, then "Never Let You Go" by Evermore, "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol and "Iris" by The Goo Goo Dolls.
As each song finishes and I inch toward track number eighteen, my pulse quickens with anticipation and fear. Every part of me aches to hear the song, to let his voice—or the memory of it—wash over me one more time.
My hand falls limp in my lap as the familiar warmth of him seeps into me. It's always there, that warmth. It's the part of him I can never quite let go of, the part that makes me want to hold on just a little longer.
I take a deep breath when the melody starts softly, piano keys falling like gentle rain, each note carrying the hollowness of everything left unsaid. Then his voice comes in, raw and honest and achingly beautiful.
"The echoes of who we are,
Were right there from the start.
Hidden in ashes of the past
In the darkest parts, there you are…"
His voice wraps around me like a familiar embrace, and I almost feel his presence beside me, singing these words that feel like they've been pulled straight from his soul. The piano builds as he continues.
"So hear me when I say,
I know your soul I'll be your home.
Until you can breathe on your own…"
Each word feels like it's being carved directly into my heart. This isn't just a song—it's every moment we've shared, every silent understanding, every time he looked at me like I was his entire world.
And yet, it's not enough to drown out the ache, the hollow, gnawing pain of his absence. The memory of him is both a comfort and a curse—a reminder of what we had and what we've lost. He might love me, maybe even more than I'll ever fully understand. The evidence is right here, in every carefully chosen song, in every word he's written, in this melody that feels like it's been orchestrated straight from his heart.
The conflict claws at me, my heart pulling me toward him even as my mind warns me to let go. I close my eyes, exhaling shakily as the question I've been avoiding rises to the surface, bitter and unavoidable.
How long am I supposed to keep waiting for someone who might never come back?
Even if he's written our love into the stars themselves, even if he's left pieces of his heart scattered around me like breadcrumbs leading home.
Morning sun filters through the trees as Jake and I glide down the familiar stretch of road, the rhythmic hum of bike tires on asphalt filling the space between us. It feels like a lifetime since I felt this alive, since I let my legs push against the pedals with purpose.
Jake rides beside me, his protective gaze catching every bump in the road before I do. I insisted on this ride. I needed something to remind me of who I was before life got so complicated. And Jake, as always, didn't argue. He never does when it's something I need.
Corrigan's Bakery appears ahead, the smell of cinnamon and sugar wrapping around us like a warm hug from the past. The sign above the door still reads, " Best Cinnabons in Town " in bold cursive letters, though they're probably the only cinnabons within fifty miles.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of fresh pastries, the cozy café humming with low chatter and clinking mugs. Jake orders without asking—two cinnabons and two vanilla lattes, our usual. The cashier's smile holds recognition, like she's missed seeing us together in this familiar dance.
We settle at our corner table by the window. Jake takes an exaggerated bite of his cinnabon, making his typical face of pure bliss, trying to coax a smile from me like he always has. It works, and for a second, everything feels like it used to—before Nate, before the accident, before everything got so beautifully and terribly complicated.
But then his expression shifts. Something heavy settles in his eye, looking at me like he's been carrying these words for too long.
"Stay in Boston," he pleads, his voice soft but insistent. His fingers twitch before reaching across the table for mine. The touch is familiar yet foreign, comfort tangled with guilt. "We can figure this out together if you're willing to give this," he gestures between us, "a real shot. I'll start working for Dad, and you can keep writing, keep going to school."
His eyes search mine, filled with an earnestness that makes my chest ache.
"Nora, we could be something fucking amazing." The weight of his next words settles over us like snow. "You're still my person, even if I'm not yours. I just want a chance to love you the way you deserve to be loved."
The light catches his face just right, highlighting all the features that make him Jake—the kindness in his eyes, the hopeful curve of his smile, the steadfast devotion that's never wavered.
For a moment, I let myself imagine it: a life with Jake, safe and sure and uncomplicated. But then Nate's face flashes in my mind, and my heart twists with the kind of longing that feels like the last note of a song hanging in the air, desperate to keep playing.
I stare at him, trying to make myself feel what he wants me to. I try to picture the future he's describing—the ease, the comfort, the predictability. A life mapped out in careful pencil strokes, each detail considered, each step planned. It's safe, steady, and so perfectly Jake. But the harder I try to make it fit, the more suffocating it feels, like trying to force myself into a shape that was never meant for me.
His words hang in the air between us, and suddenly, the truth hits me like a cold wave. He doesn't see the girl who's been clawing her way back from the edge, who's still figuring out how to exist in a world that nearly swallowed her whole. He sees what he wants to fix, not what makes me whole.
"Jake…" My voice is quiet but firm. I shake my head slowly, then with more conviction. "I can't."
His face falls, and guilt surges through me, sharp and unrelenting.
"Why?" he asks, his voice tight. "Why won't you give me a shot, Nora? We could have everything. I have it all figured out."
"I know you mean that," I say, my throat tightening. "And I love you for wanting this. But I can't give you what you're asking for. I'm not ready to commit to something—or someone—when I don't even know who I am right now."
It’s the honest truth.
His jaw tightens, hurt flickering across his face. He leans forward, his words sharp and low. "If it was him sitting here, asking you for all of this, you wouldn't hesitate."
The air leaves my lungs. My silence hangs heavy between us, and Jake exhales sharply, defeat written in every line of his body.
"I hope he's worth it," he says finally, voice soft but bitter.
Something snaps inside me.
"That's the difference between you and Nate," I say, my voice shaking. "Nate would never ask me to stay. What you see is something to hold onto or fit into your life. I don't want to fit into anyone's life."
Jake flinches and without another word, I push back my chair and walk out, leaving him behind with his carefully constructed plans that never had room for who I really am.
The cool breeze hits my face, but it does little to cool the fire burning inside me. Because this isn't about choosing between brothers. This is about choosing myself, about acknowledging that love shouldn't feel like fitting yourself into someone else's puzzle.
This is about me.
My life, my choices, my future.
That's what I keep telling myself, and it's true—mostly. But deep down, I know that's not the whole story. Because even when Nate isn't here, even when he's broken my heart in ways I didn't think were possible, he's still the one who sees clearly enough to know that sometimes love means stepping aside so the other person can soar.
Staring at my packed bags , I feel the weight of every memory this room holds. The bare walls and empty drawers whisper of a life I'm leaving behind, but it doesn't ache the way I thought it would. Bones sits on my pillow, my childhood confidant, his fur worn velvet-soft from years of catching my tears and muffling my secrets. I trace my fingers over his floppy ears one last time, considering whether to take him with me. But with a soft smile—not sad, but knowing—I place him back where he belongs. Sometimes the bravest part of moving forward is choosing what to leave behind.
The discman catches my eye on my nightstand, Nate's letter safely tucked inside my journal. His words echo in my mind: You've always been the song I can't get out of my head.
For so long, I've been harmonizing with someone else's song, matching my rhythm to theirs. I think that's what Nate realized when he wrote his letter. In order for two people to find their way back to one another, to be good for one another, they first have to be good for themselves.
Love—real love—isn't about possession.
It's about freedom.
It's about understanding that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is choose yourself. If you can't show up for someone in the way they need—or if they can't love you the way you need to be loved—then the most honest thing you can do is let go. It's not easy, but nothing worth having ever is.
There's a forever kind of magic in some moments, just like there's a forever kind of feeling for the dark-haired, amber-eyed boy who will always be a part of my story, even if he's not my ending. I don’t think Nate was ever meant to be my ending, but rather the catalyst that helped me find my own beginning. Some people come into your life not to stay, but to show you who you're meant to become. Like seasons changing, life moves in both directions—forward and backward—and the choices we make ripple through both.
This past year has taught me that nothing is permanent.
Not moments, not feelings, not people.
Everything is fleeting.
But maybe that's the point.
"Sometimes we get second chances not just for ourselves, but for all the people who need us in their story."
Standing in this empty room that holds so many memories, I finally understand what Dad meant.
London isn't just a destination—it's a declaration.
A second chance, a statement that says: I choose me.
I choose my dreams, my growth, my happiness. I choose to no longer be defined by the pain I've endured and suffering I've chosen. Grief is really just love with nowhere to go. All of that unspent love gathers in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and the hollow part of your chest. It builds until you think you might shatter from the weight of it. But you don't.
You learn to carry it, to let it shape you into someone stronger, someone deeper, someone more real. Because maybe that's the point of second chances—they're not about erasing what was, but about becoming who you need to be for all the chapters yet to come.
As I zip up my last bag, I feel it—that flutter of excitement mixed with fear, that electric current of possibility running through my veins. This is what it feels like to choose yourself. To step into the unknown not because someone else pushed you, but because you're finally ready to fly.
Will things ever be the same? No.
But they're not meant to be.
Maybe the cracks are meant to serve as reminders of what you survived, what you overcame to become this new version of yourself. The healing lies in the cracks, in the glue that fills them, making them beautiful in their brokenness.
I glance around one last time before closing the bedroom door shut.
Camilla waits downstairs, buzzing with excitement about our London adventure. We're starting something new, something big, and for the first time in a long time, I feel ready.
Not just ready—eager.
Hungry for life in a way I'd forgotten I could be.
I slip the discman and CD into my bag, their weight a quiet reminder of the boy who will always hold a piece of my heart. But I'm not staying here, frozen in the past, waiting for someone to come back to start living my life.
I'm moving forward—toward the future I've chosen for myself, toward the person I'm becoming.
Life goes on.
And so will I.
Not just surviving, but thriving.
Not just existing, but living.
Not just accepting what life gives me, but choosing what I want from it.
For myself, and for all the people who need me in their story.
This isn't an ending.
It’s my beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED…