Page 83 of Every Shattered Note
February 26th, 2001
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the stillness.
It isn’t empty or cold—it’s alive in a way that feels rare, almost unreal.The air hums softly, like the world has gone quiet just long enough to let me feelheragainst me.
The ceiling above me is streaked with light from the slatted blinds, thin lines cutting through the morning haze.The ocean murmurs beyond the windows, rolling and retreating as if catching its breath.
And she’s still here.
Aly.
If there’s any hope, maybe soon I’ll get to call her mine.My Aly.
She’s tangled in the sheets beside me, half-buried under white linen, her hair spilling across the pillow in soft waves.My arm rests beneath her, her cheek against my skin, and we’re still caught in the same shape we fell asleep in.
I’ve never seen anyone sleep like that before—so peaceful, so untouched by whatever waits outside this room.It stirs something deep inside me, an ache that feels dangerously close to belonging.
It’s strange, waking up and realizing I don’t have to leave.
No half-dressed escape.No search for excuses.No pretending this didn’t mean something.
I used to believe solitude was freedom.That distance made me stronger.That needing no one was the only way to keep from breaking.But right now, with her pressed against me, I can’t remember what that freedom was supposed to feel like.
I shift slightly, and she murmurs something in her sleep, turning toward me, fingers curling against my ribs like she knows I’m there even without seeing me.
And suddenly, I can’t imagine a morning without her in it, without this heartbeat against mine.
Maybe this is what it means to stop running.
Maybe this is what belonging actually feels like.
I shift carefully, turning onto my side.The sheet slips a little, brushing her hip.She stirs, sighs, then nestles closer like she’s done this a thousand times—like her body already knows where it belongs.My throat tightens.
What the hell is happening to me?
I reach out before I can stop myself, my fingers tracing the curve of her shoulder, the soft line where light meets skin.She’s warm.Every inch of her feels like something I didn’t know I’d been missing.
She murmurs something I can’t catch, half-dream, half-memory, and my chest twists.I’ve written a thousand songs about love and never came close to this.This isn’t a lyric.It’s a heartbeat I want to turn into melody.
I used to wake up in rooms I didn’t recognize.Hotels.Buses.Dressing rooms that smelled like liquor and sweat and adrenaline.I used to think that was life:
No attachments, no expectations, no silence to sit with.
But right now, this silence feels like the first real song I’ve ever heard.
Her hand finds my wrist, still half-asleep.She doesn’t open her eyes.She just lets her thumb brush over the inside of my arm like she’s confirming I’m real.
I could stay here.
Forever, maybe.
She shifts again, her leg sliding over mine, her body curling into me.The air between us disappears.My heartbeat stumbles.I can smell her—coconut, skin, last night.The scent of us.
And fuck, I want to stay inside this moment.
Just this.
The morning after—or maybe the beginning of everything.
