Maddy
MADDY
CONNOR:
Be ready at 2pm, darlin. We’re going for a walk.
Connor shows up at my door, just like he promised. We’ve been texting for a while, and he’s brought up walking around the property a few times since. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but Connor seems to think I’m ready.
He’s wearing that same charming grin on his face as he leans casually against the doorframe. Dressed in a simple T-shirt that clings to his muscular frame, his tattoos peeking out from the sleeve on his arm and the crowned skull tattoo on the side of his neck.
His blond hair is a bit tousled, like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it before showing up, but that only adds to the effortless charm he always seems to carry with him.
What is it with everyone in that friends group being so goddamn fit?
“Ready for that walk, darlin’?” he asks, his accent curling around the words in that soft, familiar way that makes it sound like he’s got all the time in the world. I nod, grabbing my jacket and stepping outside.
It’s strange, being out here with someone who feels so comfortable in their skin when I feel like I’ve been crawling out of mine for days. Weeks, maybe.
As we walk, he doesn’t say much at first, just leads me along the quiet path that winds through the estate. The silence is surprisingly comfortable, and I find myself relaxing a little more with every step.
But then, true to form, Connor breaks the silence in the most Connor way possible by poking my side.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” he starts, pulling a small notepad and pen from his pocket. “We could communicate like this today. Old school, y’know? No need to always be tied to that phone.” He winks, holding out the notepad and pen like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I blink, then take the notepad from him, feeling the edges of the paper beneath my fingertips. It’s small and unassuming, and it’s oddly comforting holding it in my hands.
Writing is… easier, somehow. Less pressure. I nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“There’s that smile,” Connor says, grinning. “Knew I’d see it again.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the warmth that spreads through my chest. There’s something about the way he talks to me—like he’s not pushing, not demanding anything more than what I’m willing to give. It’s nice.
We continue walking, and after a few minutes, Connor glances at me. “So, tell me somethin’ about yourself. Anything at all. I’m curious.”
I hesitate for a second, then I scribble quickly on the notepad and hand it to him.
I used to be a singer
Connor takes the notepad, glances at the words, and then looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Wait, what? You were a singer?”
I nod, the smallest of smiles playing on my lips at his reaction.
He shakes his head, clearly impressed. “That’s brilliant. You’ve got to tell me more. What kind of music?”
I write again, the words coming easier now.
Mostly rock and indie
“Rock and indie?” he repeats, his smile widening. “Now I really wish I could’ve seen you perform. Bet you were bloody amazing.”
The blush creeping up my neck is undeniable, but I look away, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and pride. I was good at it—once. Before everything fell apart.
“Damn, ,” Connor says, still clearly amazed. “First you tell me you’re a singer, and now I’m wondering what else you’ve been hidin’ from me.”
I chuckle softly, the sound surprising even me. Connor stops in his tracks, his mouth dropping open as he stares at me like I just pulled off some kind of miracle.
“Did you just laugh?” he asks, his voice incredulous.
I shrug, trying to downplay it, but his reaction only makes me smile wider.
“Alright, I’m officially a genius,” he declares, walking a bit ahead, his grin as wide as ever. “Gettin’ you to laugh like that? I must be a bloody magician.”
I roll my eyes again but can’t help the warmth spreading through my chest. He makes it easy, this whole thing. The way he talks, the way he flirts—it’s not over the top, not pushy. It’s just Connor, and for some reason, that’s comforting.
“So,” he says, his tone teasing now, “when are you gonna serenade me? You can’t just drop the ‘I used to be a singer’ bomb and not follow it up.”
I shake my head, scribbling on the notepad:
Not happening
Connor puts his hand over his heart dramatically. “You wound me, darlin’. Here I thought we were becoming best mates, and now you won’t even sing for me.”
I roll my eyes but chuckle silently, shaking my head again.
We continue walking, the conversation flowing easily, even with me mostly writing down my answers. It feels… good. Better than I expected. Connor asks about my favorite bands and favorite songs, and I find myself writing more than I have in days.
When we stop by a small clearing with a bench, Connor sits down and pats the spot next to him, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Come on, sit. Let’s talk more about your rock star past.” I sit down, and he hands me the notepad again. “So, any embarrassing stage moments? You ever trip over the mic stand or forget the lyrics?”
I grin, shaking my head as I write:
Once I almost fell off the stage
“No way!” Connor laughs, his whole face lighting up. “That would’ve been a hell of a show. Bet you made it look graceful, though, right?”
I raise an eyebrow, and he laughs again, shaking his head. “Nah, you don’t seem like the fallin’ type. More like the ‘grab the mic and keep goin’ type.”
I shrug, smiling a little.
Something like that
Connor watches me as I write, his green eyes sparkling with curiosity and amusement. It’s strange, being around him like this—so relaxed, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but somehow still focused entirely on me. It’s hard not to feel a little bit lighter when he’s like this.
“So, where’d you play?” he asks, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Did you have a regular gig, or were you like a secret superstar, playin’ in all the cool spots?”
I pause, thinking about the clubs back in Timi?oara, the small festivals where I used to perform. It feels like a lifetime ago. I write slowly, trying to find the right words:
Clubs, some festivals. Mostly local stuff back in Timisoara
Connor reads the note and nods, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s pretty damn cool, you know? Not everyone’s got the guts to get up there and perform. Takes real confidence.”
I shrug again, feeling a little self-conscious under his praise. It’s weird, hearing him talk about me like that, especially when I don’t feel like the person he’s describing anymore. The girl who used to sing on stage feels so far away now, like she’s someone else entirely.
Connor must see the shift in my expression, because his smile fades slightly, and he leans forward, lowering his voice a little. “Do you miss it? The singing?”
I hesitate before writing:
Yeah. I miss who I was.
He reads the note, and for a moment, there’s silence between us. He looks at me, really looks, and I can see the understanding in his eyes. He’s not pushing, not judging—just giving me space to feel whatever I’m feeling.
“Aye, I get that,” he says quietly. “Sometimes, the hardest part about all this shit—about trauma, about loss—is missin’ who we were before. It feels like that version of us is gone, but... perhaps they’re just waitin’ to come back when we’re ready.”
I blink, surprised by how much his words hit home, like he believes it’s possible for me to find that part of myself again.
He stands up suddenly, a playful grin back on his face. “Alright, enough heavy stuff. Let’s walk a bit more, yeah?”
We walk side by side in comfortable silence for a bit, Connor’s long strides matching mine easily, even though he’s much taller. After a while, he glances at me with that mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Okay, let’s play a game,” he says. “I’ll ask you random questions, and you have to answer honestly. Deal?”
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes playfully as if to ask, Why?
“C’mon, why not?” He grins. “Could be fun. Plus, I get to learn more about you. You’re a mystery, . A beautiful one, but a mystery nonetheless.”
My face heats up at his words, and I look away, feeling the familiar self-consciousness creeping in.
Beautiful? That’s not a word people use for girls like me. Not when they’re standing next to someone like Connor, who’s effortlessly good-looking and knows it. But when I glance at him, he’s just smiling, like he didn’t even realize what he said would make me feel that way.
“Alright, first question,” he continues, not giving me time to dwell on it. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”
I roll my eyes at the randomness of the question but scribble my answer on the notepad:
Strawberry
“Ah, a classic,” Connor says, nodding approvingly. “Good choice. I’m more of a mint chocolate chip guy myself.”
I raise an eyebrow and make a gagging gesture. Mint? Really?
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” he says with a grin. “It’s refreshing.”
If you like frozen toothpaste!
“Watch it,” he says playfully, nudging me with his shoulder.
We keep walking, and he keeps throwing out questions—some light, some more personal—and with each one, I feel myself opening up a little more. Connor’s energy makes it hard to stay closed off. He’s playful, yes, but he’s also genuine, and I can tell he actually cares about what I have to say.
At one point, he asks, “What’s one thing about you that would surprise people?”
I hesitate, feeling a little vulnerable with this one. But then I write:
I used to be really outspoken. Lively. Always the one talking
Connor looks at me in disbelief, his eyes wide. “No way. You?”
I nod, smiling a little at his reaction.
He shakes his head, clearly impressed. “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess I gotta work harder to get that version of you back, huh?”
I don’t know why, but the way he says it—like he believes I’m still in there somewhere—makes me want to laugh. Before I can stop it, I do. It’s a small laugh, barely more than a chuckle, but it’s real. And it feels… good.
Connor gapes at me. “Did you just laugh again? Jesus, I must be better at this than I thought.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling. I write:
Don’t get too cocky
He grins, leaning down a little to meet my gaze. “Too late, darlin’. I’m always cocky.”
I shake my head, amused by how easy it is to be around him.
Connor keeps the questions coming, but they’re lighter now— more playful. And before I know it, we’re laughing again, the sound filling the quiet air.
At one point, he glances at me, his expression softening. “You know, ,” he says, his voice a little more serious now, “I think you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You’ve been through hell, but you’re still here. That says a lot.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just nod, feeling a lump form in my throat. He’s wrong, though. I don’t feel strong.
I feel broken, like I’m barely holding it together. But the way he says it… he almost makes me believe it.
He stops walking for a moment, turning to face me fully. “And just so you know, I meant what I said earlier. I’m here for you. Whenever you need me. No pressure, no expectations. Just… here.”
I look up at him, and I feel like maybe I can let someone in. Just a little.
I nod, scribbling on the notepad before handing it to him:
Thank you
He smiles, reading the note and then pulls me into a sideways hug. “No need to thank me, darlin’. I’m just doin’ what feels right.”
By the time we head back, I’m still holding the notepad, my mind buzzing with the thought that perhaps with Connor’s help, I can find my way back to the version of myself I thought was gone forever.