Page 39 of Every Shattered Note
But this—this isn’t that.
This is two people sharing food, pretending they’re not exhausted, trying to believe they still have something left to offer.
It’s not a date.
Just two souls who needed a peaceful meal, a little company, and the faint, reckless hope that maybe—someday—they’ll finally be enough.
ChapterSixteen
Alyssa
It’s almost midnight.And I can’t quite wrap my head around that.
I don’t stay out late on weekdays.I don’t take spontaneous dinner breaks with near-strangers.I don’t wander home through damp Seattle streets, full of greasy fries and my head full of someone else’s voice.
But tonight, all of that happened.
The walk back to my apartment isn’t long.That’s part of why I said yes in the first place.A burger, a shake, and the promise that I’d be home within the hour.Except hours passed.And to be honest, I don’t want them back.
The rain has stopped, but the streets still shimmer beneath the orange cast of the streetlights.Water beads along the hoods of parked cars and storefront awnings.The air smells like wet pavement and cigarette smoke, with the faintest trace of night jasmine from someone’s windowsill pot.
The smell of espresso drifts from the 24-hour café on the corner—the one that still plays cassette tapes.A low hum of sound spills into the street, old songs warping slightly through the speakers.My heels click quietly against the sidewalk, but I don’t rush.Neither does he.
Rafe walks beside me with his hands shoved in the pockets of his worn jacket, his gaze on the pavement like it holds something important.Every now and then, I glance at him.At the profile I know I shouldn’t recognize.At the way his lips press together when he’s thinking.The air between us is filled with things we’re not ready to say yet.It’s just too much in one night.
Our conversation from earlier plays on repeat in my head.
He spoke about his grandfather like he was still in the room.Every note of music he played still carried that man’s breath.The one who taught him how to hold a guitar, how to listen instead of just hear.There was love in those memories—and a sadness he didn’t bother hiding, like he knew I’d see it anyway.
Then he asked more about my father.It was strange because no one ever asks about him or my siblings.Most days, I pretend the distance is just geography.But Rafe—he went there without flinching.
“You should search for your mother and ask her why,” he said, soft but certain.“Why did she leave you, too?You deserve to know it wasn’t about you.That it never was.”
I’d stared down at my milkshake, throat thick, unsure if I wanted to cry or throw it in his lap for daring to be that honest.No one talks to me like that.No one dares to see through the polished lines and color-coded schedules.
That’s when he told me he wished he’d talked to his father.Really talked.Asked the questions that might’ve peeled back some of the damage, maybe even given him a piece of peace.
But now it’s too late.
He ran out of time, and there’s no one left in his family who can explain what happened back then.No family dinners to unearth lost answers.Not even letters hidden in drawers.Just silence and bad memories stitched together with guesses.
At least he has his friends.He called them brothers without hesitation, like family wasn’t something you’re born into but something you fight to keep.And then there’s the baby—his nephew—who, even at just a few months old, seems to keep him tethered to the good in the world.He talks about that kid like he’s proof that not everything is broken.
There’s still a future worth wishing for.
We walk side by side, our footsteps soft on damp pavement.The city’s quieted down to a murmur, and the orange haze of streetlights makes everything feel suspended—like we’re between something that’s ending and something that hasn’t started yet.
Then Rafe speaks.“If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?”
I glance over.He’s watching the sidewalk like it might offer up the answer itself.But there’s a shift in his voice—looser, lighter.Like he’s letting himself imagine for the first time in a while.
“Anywhere?”I ask, wrinkling my nose.“I don’t think I’ve got that luxury.My schedule’s booked at least through next year.”
He scoffs gently.“Pretend there’s no gala.No vendors.No timelines.Just a few days where you don’t have to juggle twenty plates and answer phone calls during meals.”
I pause, letting the fantasy fill the air between us.Warmth.Sun.Air that doesn’t cling to your skin like regret.No pagers buzzing.No voicemails stacking up.No one needing anything from me.
“Somewhere tropical,” I murmur.“With an ocean.And no one leaving messages asking where I am or why I haven’t called back.”
