??????? ?? | ??????? ?????

𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀 𝐌𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐄 🦋/❦♫♪♩♬\🦋

THE SOFT STRUMMING of my fingers against the strings filled the room, accompanied by the quiet hum of a melody I'd been working on. It wasn't much—just a few chords, a handful of notes that floated through the air—but it was enough to distract me, enough to keep my mind from wandering too far into the places I didn't want it to go.

The guitar felt familiar in my hands, like an extension of myself. Mam's guitar. It still smelled faintly of her—lavender and the slightest hint of the beeswax polish she'd use to keep it looking new. I could almost hear her voice telling me to press harder on the strings, to let my fingers glide over them instead of fighting against them.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, casting a warm glow over the room. Patrick was sprawled out in my desk chair, leaning back with his arms folded behind his head, his eyes fixed on me.

It wasn't uncomfortable, him watching me like that. It was Patrick. It was normal. For as long as I could remember, this was something we'd done—me with the guitar, him with a notebook or his own guitar, working on something together. Back then, though, there was always more laughter, more singing, more life.

Now, the only sound was the guitar and the occasional hum of my voice as I played around with the melody. It wasn't the same. Nothing was.

I glanced up at Patrick, catching his eye, and he grinned at me in that easy, lopsided way of his. It made my heart squeeze in a way I wasn't entirely used to yet, even after all these weeks.

"You're staring," I teased, my voice light, though the weight in my chest didn't ease.

"Can you blame me?" he shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're the one putting on a show."

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't help the small smile that crept onto my face. "Hardly a show," I murmured, glancing down at the strings again.

"It's a show to me," he said softly, and I could hear the sincerity in his voice.

I didn't look up. I didn't know if I could.

The truth was, I was barely holding it together. Picking up the guitar again was hard enough, but singing? That was a whole other beast. I hadn't sung in years—not since Mam died. It wasn't like I didn't want to; it was just that every time I tried, my throat closed up, my chest tightened, and all I could think about was how much she'd loved to hear me sing. How much she'd encouraged me, pushed me, told me I had a gift.

And now she wasn't here to hear it anymore.

I admired Naoise for that, you know? She never let Mam's death stop her. She kept dancing, kept pushing herself, kept chasing her dreams. And Noah—God, Noah was relentless. He buried himself in his studies, took on the role of protector and provider like it was second nature.