Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Ophelia

I still remember the first time I moved. I was twelve, and Mom had been gone for two years. Her absence wasn’t just something we felt—it was everywhere. It clung to the walls of our old house, to the silence at the dinner table, to every piece of furniture that still smelled like her perfume. Packing up wasn’t about fresh starts or new beginnings. It wasn’t hopeful. It was survival.

Dad couldn’t handle it anymore, I think. Or maybe he didn’t know how to handle us—me and my brother, two kids looking at him like he had all the answers when he barely had the strength to get out of bed most days.

He told us the move would be good for us, that we needed a change. But even then, at twelve, I knew the truth: we weren’t moving toward something. We were running. Running from the memories, from the life we’d built with her, from the echoes of her voice that wouldn’t stop bouncing around the house.

I remember watching Dad pack her favorite books into a box. He didn’t cry—he rarely did. But his hands shook as he taped the box shut. And when he thought no one was looking, he sat on the edge of her side of the bed, his head in his hands, like he was carrying something far too big for him to bear.

Back then, I didn’t understand how grief can hollow a person out, how it can steal parts of you that you didn’t even know you needed to survive. But I saw it in him, in the way his voice softened when he said her name, in the way he tried so hard to keep it together for us.

Moving that time wasn’t just packing boxes. It was like ripping open wounds that hadn’t healed, shoving them into the trunk of a car, and driving away with them. I hated it. I hated leaving the only house I’d ever known, even if it hurt to stay there. I hated that we were leaving her behind, like we were erasing her somehow. And more than anything, I hated that I didn’t feel ready to let go of the life we had before.

Now, years later, moving still feels the same. It’s like digging through pieces of myself I wasn’t ready to uncover.

Memories I thought were long buried resurface, vivid and unrelenting, refusing to stay hidden. I open a box, and suddenly I’m twelve again, staring at the same pain I thought I’d outgrown. It’s like the past doesn’t just live in your mind—it lives in your things, in the corners of a photograph, in the words scrawled on a note you forgot you kept.

This time, though, it’s different. Or so I hope it is. This move isn’t about survival. It’s about possibility. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But there’s this part of me that wonders if I’m chasing something I can’t catch, or maybe running from something I’m not ready to face. Is this about building a new life, or is it about avoiding the pieces of the old one I haven’t fully dealt with? Maybe it’s both.

Either way, I can’t shake the fear that I’m making the same mistakes all over again.

I’m holding a box, the cardboard edges biting into my palms as I maneuver around the clutter. The movers are chatting in the background, their voices blending with the faint hum of the radio they’ve had on since morning. It’s just noise—harmless, forgettable—until it isn’t.

A familiar melody filters through the air, and my chest tightens as the box grows heavier in my hands. I freeze mid-step, the sound crashing over me. His voice. Deep. Unmistakable. It fills the room, pressing against me with every word.

“Ophelia, you light up my darkest days, the sun in my shadow, my heart’s only blaze . . .”

The song digs into me, relentless, pulling me into memories I’ve fought to bury. The box tilts slightly in my grasp, the contents shifting inside—old records, pieces of him I swore I was ready to let go of. My breath hitches as the melody wraps itself around me, unwelcome and unyielding, like it’s trying to remind me of everything I’ve been trying to forget.

It’s our song. The one he wrote for me. The one threaded with every promise we whispered in the dark. Midnight confessions, fragile hopes, all of it poured into a melody that felt like forever. Hearing it now, when I’m trying to pack up my life and let go of the past, feels like a cruel trick of fate.

The lyrics crawl beneath my skin, stirring emotions I’ve spent years trying to bury. I stand frozen, the sound of his voice pulling at every thread of my resolve, unraveling the carefully stitched pieces of my life. Moving forward feels like an impossible task when the past keeps finding its way back, clawing at me, demanding to be felt.

It’s as if an old, forgotten part of me has broken free, raw and unyielding, demanding attention. My thoughts spiral, too fast to catch, a tangle of questions colliding in my mind.

Why this song? Why now?

Is this a coincidence—or a message?

Am I moving on too quickly?

Have I convinced myself I’m ready when I’m not?

Is this a sign I’m still tethered to him, to the life we almost had? Or is it his way of telling me it’s time to let go, to finally step into the future I’ve been trying to build?

But the thought of letting go—truly letting go—makes my chest constrict. If I move forward with Haydn, does that mean I’m leaving Keane behind forever? And why does that thought both soothe and hurt? The relief is tangled with a pain so deep it feels impossible to untangle.

“It means nothing, Pia.” Haydn’s voice breaks through, firm yet gentle, cutting through the storm in my mind like sunlight filtering through a shuttered room—soft, warm, and impossible to ignore. He steps closer, and the space around me seems to shift, his presence an anchor in the chaos of my thoughts, a quiet clarity to the whirlwind of emotions twisting inside me.

His words are a melody, soft and resonant, weaving through the fractured edges of my soul with an aching tenderness. They soothe like velvet brushing over rawness, unyielding yet impossibly gentle. He is gravity itself, drawing me in with a force that feels as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the tide meeting the shore.

His hand rests on my shoulder, grounding me, tethering me to this moment. “Pia,” he says again, softer this time, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers skimming down my spine. The way he looks at me—steady, unwavering, like I’m the only thing that matters—makes the ache in my chest unravel just a little.

He’s here. Haydn Wesford. The man who’s been my compass in the dark, pointing me toward a life I’ve been too afraid to imagine. The one who urged me to take this leap, to trust in a future I’m still fumbling to believe in.

And when he tilts his head, his thumb brushing softly over my shoulder, I know—he’s not just here. He’s mine.

I force a small, tight smile, but my heart flutters as the song continues, each lyric weaving through my mind, pulling me back to Keane. Back to when his love felt like everything, when his voice carried promises I thought would last forever. It’s mostly not because of the love I had for him, but for the guilt that eats my heart because I can be here and he . . . he’s no more.

“Ophelia, I’d chase a thousand stars to keep you near . . .” The words hit like a soft ache, stirring the depths of what we once were and the ache of all we let slip away. They pull me back to a time I thought I’d buried, unraveling the carefully stitched pieces of a version of myself I’ve fought to leave behind.

Haydn’s hand glides down to mine, his touch firm yet tender, drawing me back from the edge where my thoughts spiral unchecked. “It’s just a song, Pia. Not a sign.” His voice holds a certainty that steadies the tempest inside me, each word threading through the noise with quiet strength.

He takes the box from my trembling hands, his movements deliberate and gentle, as if understanding how much weight it carries for me. Setting it aside, he steps closer, his arms wrapping around me with a warmth that seeps into every fractured corner of my being. His embrace doesn’t just hold me—it anchors me, his presence a wordless promise that I’m not alone in this moment.

“Just a song,” he says again, his voice softer now, near my ear. The sound of it, the way he speaks as if I’m the only person in his world, untangles the knot in my chest.

But the peaceful feeling doesn’t last long. My anxiety spikes. The thing is that this wasn’t just a song. Back then, it was everything—the way Keane asked me to believe in him, in us. Those words held our dreams, our promises, our future. And now, as Haydn’s warmth surrounds me, I’m struck by the weight of what it means to move forward when someone I once loved couldn’t.

A lump rises in my throat, and my voice wavers as I whisper, “How can I keep going when he can’t?”

Haydn tightens his hold on me, his warmth seeping into the fractures I’ve tried to ignore, steadying the fragile parts of me that feel on the verge of breaking. But the ache inside me refuses to settle. It lingers as the melody fades into silence.

“You’re allowed to carry him with you,” he murmurs, his voice gentle, almost tender. “But you’re also allowed to move forward, Pia. We can build something new, something just as real. I’m not asking you to forget him—I know that’s not possible. I just . . . want you to let yourself live.”

I close my eyes, leaning into him, welcoming the slow, steady beat of his heart to soothe me. He’s here, with me, in this messy, imperfect present, and maybe that’s exactly where I need to be.

With a shaky breath, I let myself relax into his embrace, allowing myself, just for a moment, to loosen my grip on the past and focus on the quiet promise of what lies ahead. It’s not easy, and it’s far from perfect, but maybe—just maybe—it’s enough.

Just as I’m trying to find my footing, the music swells, the chorus filling the room with more promises, more forevers. Each note presses tighter against my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs until I can barely breathe. Guilt, grief, the ache of dreams that can never come true—all the things I thought I’d buried—rise up, unrelenting, crashing over me in waves.

“Baby,” Haydn’s voice comes soft and sure, like a calm in the middle of the storm. His hand moves in slow, gentle circles on my back, pulling me back to the present. “If you’re not ready, I’ll tell the movers to put everything back just as it was. Whatever you need, Pia.”

Because, of course, he would say that. Haydn is the most patient soul I’ve ever known, the kind of man who doesn’t ask for anything in return, who waits without question, who stands by me through every setback, every tear. Even now, I don’t understand how I got so lucky to be loved by someone like him—a man who sees every flawed, broken piece of me and never flinches, never pulls away. He’s become my strength, my safe place, the one person who makes me feel like I might not be as shattered as I think I am.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice thoughtful, “I think you’re right. Maybe this is his way of telling you it’s okay to move on, to finally let yourself be happy.”

That does it. The dam I’ve been holding back finally breaks, and the tears come, spilling over in warm, unstoppable streams.

The grief is deep and piercing, rising up with a force I wasn’t prepared for. It’s not just missing him—of course I miss him, every single day. But it’s more than that. It’s the guilt, the twisted shame of wanting happiness again, of daring to even imagine a future with someone else, as if reaching for peace is a betrayal to the love I shared with Keane.

A ragged breath catches in my throat as I cling to Haydn, torn between gratitude and guilt. It feels as though I’m suspended between two worlds—one that ended before its time and another that waits just beyond my reach, calling to me, if only I could summon the courage to step forward.

Haydn holds me close, his arms preventing me from falling apart completely. “You’re allowed to feel all of this, Pia. Grief doesn’t just disappear because we find happiness again. It’s part of you, and it always will be. But it doesn’t have to keep you from living. Moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting him. It just means you’re choosing to live for yourself, to honor the love you still carry.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. His fingers are gentle as he brushes a tear from my cheek. “Starting a new life doesn’t erase anything that came before. It just means you’re ready to let joy back in.”

A sob catches in my throat, and my voice trembling, I manage to whisper, “I don’t deserve you.”

Haydn’s expression softens as he lifts my chin. “That has nothing to do with it,” he says gently.

Tenderly, he kisses the tip of my nose. “Love isn’t about measuring worth. It’s about seeing each other, even the parts we’d rather hide, and choosing to stay anyway. You accept my routines, my superstitions, the midnight meditations . . . all the quirky parts of me.” He smiles a little, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “You’ve shown me that kind of love every single day, and I’m grateful to be here with you—for all of it, the good and the complicated.”

He pauses, letting the words settle, as if to make sure I feel the truth in them. “You don’t have to be perfect to be loved, Pia. You’re enough, just as you are.”

The tears won’t stop now, and I choke out the question I’ve been afraid to ask, my voice breaking. “Are you sure you still want me to move in with you?”

A smile softens his face, and he cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away another tear. “I love you too much not to, Pia. Building a life with you isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about taking all of it—every heartbreak, every joy, every scar—and creating something beautiful together. I’m here for all of it, and I’m here for you.”

“I love you too,” I whisper, feeling the ache of letting go mingling with the warmth of finally, truly allowing myself to be held.

And yet, as I rest in his arms, a flicker of unease stirs in the back of my mind, a nagging whisper I can’t quite ignore. It’s a fear that’s haunted me before, a feeling that creeps in like an old warning. My mother used to say to watch for the signs, that they’re there to tell us something if we’re willing to listen. But right now, I don’t understand what I’m supposed to hear, or if I’m even ready to listen.

Because the last time I let my guard down, the last time I trusted love to hold me, I lost him. And the scars of that loss still linger, haunting me to this day.