Keane’s Epilogue

It’s been a year since I woke up.

A year since I realized my life had crumbled, leaving me standing in the ruins, unsure how to rebuild. The guitar rests across my lap, a piece of my past I’m trying to reclaim, as my fingers hover over the strings. The notes don’t flow as effortlessly as they once did, but they’re there, finding their way back to me.

Progress.

I strum a few chords, rough but recognizable, the melody of something new taking shape. Music has been my connection to everything that makes sense, even now when it feels more like a fragile thread than the solid foundation it once was. My hands still tremble sometimes, my body still resists the smallest movements, but I’m here. I’m trying.

A stack of mail sits on the edge of the coffee table, mostly ignored until now. Bills, advertisements, and one envelope with Rowan’s name in fancy handwriting. Curiosity gets the better of me. I set the guitar aside carefully and tear it open. Inside is a photo, glossy and vibrant, one I wasn’t expecting to see.

Philly.

My Philly.

Except she isn’t mine anymore. She’s standing next to him . Haydn. The guy who figured out how to make her smile in ways I never could. They’re on a beach, her hair caught in the breeze, her hand resting lightly on his chest. And there it is. The ring. The announcement I didn’t know I’d been dreading but expected all the same. They’re getting married.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair. My chest feels tight—not the physical kind, but the kind that makes breathing a little harder, like the air in the room isn’t enough.

“Something wrong?” Rowan’s voice cuts through my thoughts, casual but curious as he leans against the doorway.

I hold up the photo, not bothering to hide it. He steps closer, his sharp eyes scanning the image. His jaw tightens briefly, then relaxes. “I don’t understand why you let her go,” he says, his tone somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. “Why pretend you didn’t recognize her?”

Only Rowe and I know the truth. I did remember her. It happened when Constantine came into Haydn’s house that all the memories of her flashed through. It was like watching a movie. A very fucked-up movie that suddenly hit me too hard. A girl who loved too much and a man who loved but couldn’t do it the way she deserved.

I snort. “You think I didn’t want to hold on to her? That I didn’t want to say something when she came for closure?”

“Then why didn’t you?” Rowan counters, crossing his arms. He’s staring at me now, waiting for an answer, like he always does.

“Because it wouldn’t have mattered,” I say, my voice low. “Look at her, Rowan. She’s happy. She’s alive in a way I never let her be when she was with me. She never smiled like this when we were together. She deserves Haydn who worships her and cares for her the way she deserves. I . . . I’m too broken to attempt something like that.”

Rowan shakes his head, frustration flickering across his face. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what she would’ve chosen if you’d just been honest with her.”

“That’s the thing,” I snap, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “She deserved to choose, and I didn’t want her to feel trapped by some half-broken version of me. I couldn’t even remember her for weeks, Rowan.”

He’s silent for a moment, then gestures toward the guitar. “You’re not broken anymore, Keane. You’re getting better. You’re walking, you’re playing. You’re working fucking hard.”

I glance at the photo again, at the way Philly looks at Haydn, like he’s her whole world. And I know. I know it’s not about me anymore.

“She’s moved on,” I say quietly, setting down the picture. “And maybe I need to figure out how to do the same.”

Rowan watches me, his expression softening just enough to remind me that beneath his blunt exterior, he still cares. “You ever think about what you want, Keane? Beyond all this guilt and trying to fix what you think you broke?”

My fingers brush over the guitar strings, plucking a muted note, as I let the question settle. Do I even know what I want? What I’m supposed to want?

“I want to play,” I say finally, the admission scraping out of me like a confession. My voice is low, uncertain. “I want to make music. And maybe one day . . . maybe I’ll want more.”

Rowan nods, his gaze steady but unreadable, like he’s weighing my words against some invisible scale. He claps me lightly on the shoulder, the kind of touch that’s meant to ground you, not comfort you. “Then start there,” he says simply. “And stop looking back.”

With that, he heads for the door, the echo of his footsteps fading as the latch clicks shut behind him. The room feels quieter now, the kind of quiet that presses in on you, forcing you to confront whatever you’ve been trying to avoid.

I let out a slow breath, my hand hovering over the photo for just a moment longer before slipping it back into the envelope. Out of sight, but never really out of mind. The image of her lingers like a song stuck on repeat.

The thing is, I don’t know if I deserve more. If forever is even in the cards for me. My heart is hers—it always has been, always will be. But what am I supposed to do now, knowing there was a fault in our forever and now she’s found it with someone else?