Chapter 18 Raina #2
He speaks, his voice rough and uneven, like he’s squeezing his pain through the cracks of his jaw.
“Hey, Storm Chasers… today’s story is about watching Raina’s debut show.
As I’m sure you know by now watching all of these, I was supposed to be there with Raina, but I had to stay at home to finish school.
It wrecked me not being there by her side, supporting her in her dream.
But you better believe I would be there in whatever way I could be.
“She texted me beforehand about how nervous she was, worried that all of you wouldn’t love her.
But I knew that fear was silly. How could the world not love the passion she has for performing?
” His fingers wobble on the fretboard, drawing out notes that tremble in the blue-tinged shadows behind him.
“I wasn’t ready for what I saw… not really.
She was even more dazzling than I’ve ever seen her before.
Like a damn comet slicing across a cold sky, but also…
distant. Like she was already slipping away from me. ”
The words land heavy, a stone settling deep in my chest. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
The air feels too thin, the room tilting slightly.
The memory his voice stirs isn’t from that night but all the ones where he never replied to my texts, when it felt like he abandoned me.
The ache is immediate, visceral. It blossoms under my ribs like fire.
Tristan’s face shifts as he continues. “It wasn’t long after that our communication cut off.
Before you jump to conclusions, it was through manipulation Raina didn’t even know about it.
In fact, she thought I was the one who stopped talking to her.
” His voice breaks, raw and ragged. “Our friendship ending like that gutted us both. I hated feeling invisible to her when all I wanted was to be the one who knew her best.”
I suck in a sharp breath, unsteady. My fingers clutch the phone tighter.
The image on the screen stares back at me with such naked pain it makes my heart tremble in sympathy.
It’s as if his confession unravels every protective layer I’ve wrapped around myself, and for a moment, I’m just a girl trying to catch a glimpse of the person behind the hurt.
Tristan’s voice is softer now, lower, like he’s confessing secrets into a void. “I was proud of her. Proud and terrified all at once. Proud that she made it, found her dream and embraced it. Terrified I might lose her to a world that’s always been too cruel, and I wouldn’t be there to protect her.”
The knot in my throat tightens, a dry heat burning behind my eyes. My breathing grows shallow, each inhale jagged against the smooth ache filling my chest. Dare rubs his palm in soothing circles on my back, not saying a word but being the lifeline I need in the storm of all these memories.
This isn’t the arrogant, cruel Tristan I was reunited with. This is a man bleeding his truth, exposing every raw edge and jagged corner. His vulnerability is clear.
With every word, every note, the space between us shrinks, his regret woven into the music, entwined with the ghosts I thought I’d locked away. My hands tremble as I let the video play through, it ending with the words, “I’m so sorry, Lexi. I love you.”
I watch the next, then another, and another.
Each clip ends the same: Tristan looking into the camera with haunted eyes, whispering the same apology, and counting the days to his groveling tour.
The repetition of his remorse hammers at my chest, reverberating in the quiet house. It’s a pulse I didn’t realize I was missing, a fragile thread stitching together broken halves.
I tremble, just barely, as the images wash over me—Tristan’s haunted blue eyes, the shake in his hands, the steadfast promise in his voice. And beneath it all, the ache of everything we lost and might still salvage.
The ocean hums outside, steady and relentless, as if it too listens to his confessions with bated breath.
I lean into Dare once more, using him as support as the room dissolves into sound and shadow, everything gets carried away on the fragile strings of his apology. My throat tightens, but I keep watching, caught somewhere between shattered trust and hesitant hope.
Finally, I’ve watched every one he’s posted…
I stare at my phone for so long after pausing the last reel that the screen goes black.
It’s heavy in my hands, warm from the way I’ve clutched it.
The videos swirl in my mind, Tristan’s confessions and apologies echoing louder than I thought possible.
My thumbs hover uncertainly above the keyboard, ready to type out a text to Tristan.
My breath catches then falters. I want to say so much, and yet the words won’t come to me.
“I…” I start, then delete, shaking my head, as if clearing the storm inside me.
The room seems to shrink around me, and emotion wraps around my throat. The comforting silence takes a turn into deafening. I set the phone down, fingertips tracing the cold surface as if it will inspire whatever I want to say.
“You don’t have to say anything to him if you’re not ready,” Dare whispers next to me, not wanting to be too abrupt in breaking the silence. “Forgiveness doesn’t rewrite the song — it just lets you stop replaying the worst part.”
I turn my head with wide eyes, staring at Dare, running his words through my mind on repeat. Tris and I don’t have to forget everything we’ve been through, and forgiving him won’t erase everything he did, but it does give us a chance to get past it. To build something beautiful for our future.
After a moment, I pick up the phone again. Taking a deep breath, I type out my text carefully.
Raina: I saw your videos. I heard you, Tris.
I set my phone aside gently, as a small, uncertain smile tugs at the corner of my lips. This feels right; Tristan and I mending things. It’s not forgiveness yet, but it’s the first step.
The sharp ping of a notification cuts through the quiet almost immediately. Tristan’s name flashes across the screen, giving me a slight fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. But I don’t read it. Not yet.
Turning to Dare, I give him a smile of appreciation. He might not have done much, but his simple nudges and support mean the world.
“It’s one of his steps in the I’m-an-asshole recovery program,“ Dare says, pointing to my phone. He’s clearly referring to the videos we watched together.
I let out a small, surprised laugh. It does kinda feel like groveling should be a multiple-step program. “And which step would this be?” I type out.
Dare lets out a hum like he’s thinking. “I’m not sure. Step one is probably admitting you’re an asshole. Step two is to realize you were wrong. Step three has to be getting on your knees and begging for forgiveness.” He winks at me. “I’m sure there’s more. Should we figure them out together?”
I roll my eyes at Dare’s teasing, but warmth blooms in my chest, the kind that spreads like sunshine through the cracks of the clouds.
He always knows how to coax a smile out of me, even when my heart feels heavy.
I glance down at my phone where Tristan’s message awaits, and the fluttering in my stomach grows into a storm of anticipation and trepidation.
“Step two sounds like it sucks,” I reply, my heart fluttering with the knowledge that this isn’t an exaggeration for Tristan. If I ever get to the point of forgiveness, I imagine the paths he must tread—paths lined with my own pain and betrayal.
But as I glance at my phone, his words still fresh in my mind, a tingle of hope pulses through me. I can choose to mend things. The thought feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
“Do you think he really means it?” I type, half-lost in my thoughts, wondering if the weight of his regret can ever truly translate into something palpable between us. I glance back at Dare, his features softening as he shrugs, leaning back comfortably against the couch’s edge.
“I think he wants it, Raina. The real question is whether you want it in return.” His answer doesn’t dodge the gravity of my emotional chaos. What will it take for me to believe in Tristan again?
I’m not sure what will get me there, but if I’m honest with myself, I want to get to that point.
Outside, the ocean keeps beating—steady, relentless—like the slow pulse of a heart learning to trust again.
I sit there a little longer, phone still warm in my hand, Dare’s quiet presence anchoring me as the wind slips through the open door. For the first time in months, I don’t feel like I’m trapped between what was and what could be. The tide is shifting, it’s slow, patient, unstoppable.
Maybe forgiveness doesn’t come all at once. Maybe it comes like the sea—one wave at a time, softening the sharpest edges until what’s left is something new.
I look down at my phone again. Tristan’s name still glows on the screen, waiting.
This time, I don’t flinch.
The future hums somewhere beyond the surf, a melody still unwritten. And for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to listen.