Sebastian – POV
I sat by the lake, cigarette burning slow between my fingers, the ember casting a dull orange glow against the dark water. Same routine, different night—me, my thoughts, and the silence I pretend makes everything easier. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
I’m still pissed about Sam and Abigail snooping through my room yesterday. Yeah, I left my notebook out, but come on—boundaries. Then again, I’m the idiot who keeps trusting people with keys to my life. Literally and metaphorically.
The seasons keep shifting. The air smells like the edge of fall—dry leaves, cold mornings coming—and still, I can’t get Hannah out of my head. It’s pathetic, honestly. I keep cycling between missing her and being furious at her, and I don’t even know which one hurts worse.
I’m angry. I don’t want to be, but I am. She vanished, and the silence she left behind is screaming at me. A call, a letter, hell—even a sarcastic comment while walking past me on the trail would've been something. But there's nothing. And the longer it goes on, the more I wonder if this is her version of a breakup. The quiet kind. The kind where you just stop showing up.
We never even defined what we were. No labels. No rules. Just us, living in a moment I guess I thought would stretch on longer than one damn season.
I keep asking myself if I should’ve stayed. If I should’ve pushed harder, held her hand through the worst of it instead of backing off when she fell apart. But what if staying would’ve meant breaking right alongside her?
Now it just feels like I’m grieving someone who’s still alive—mourning a heartbeat I can’t hear anymore.
And maybe all I’ll ever have of her is the memory.
“Seb?”
I flinch slightly at Abigail’s voice. I turn and see her and Sam standing a few feet away, Sam balancing his laptop like it's a bomb about to go off.
“Hey,” I mutter, turning my eyes back to the lake. The cigarette’s burned halfway out.
“We have something for you,” Sam says.
That gets my attention. I raise a skeptical brow. “Is it my dignity? 'Cause I’ve been looking for that since you broke into my room.”
Abigail laughs as they sit beside me on the grass. “It’s a gift,” she says, voice lighter than usual. “Not a bribe.”
Sam offers me an earbud. “Just listen.”
I hesitate, but eventually sigh and take it. The second the music starts, I go still.
The intro is soft—Sebastian-soft. High-pitched synth notes, delicate, like a melody crying under its breath. Then the guitar slides in, clean but weighted. Heavy without drowning it.
And then... Sam’s voice.
But the words aren’t his.
They’re mine.
My stomach knots instantly. I glance at Abigail, who’s grinning like she just solved a murder mystery. I want to be mad—I am mad—but the song…
It’s good.
It’s better than good. It’s painfully honest, layered with everything I felt when I wrote those lines in the middle of the night, unsure if anyone would ever read them. And now here they are, alive—bleeding through headphones like they’ve been waiting for this all along.
When the final verse ends and the music fades, I pull out the earbud slowly, like if I move too fast, the spell might break.
“You two made that?”
Sam nods, proud and nervous. “Yeah. We pulled some of your synth tracks from the archive folder. I added a guitar line. Abigail handled drums. It just… came together.”
“They were too good to stay locked in a notebook,” Abigail adds. “We had to.”
I sigh and stare out at the water, letting the silence hang. The reflection of the stars flickers just slightly—almost like they’re nodding in agreement.
“I should be pissed,” I say finally. “But... it sounds like a band I’d actually want to be in.”
Sam fist pumps the air. Abigail claps her hands, triumphant.
“So… can we play it at the gig next week?” Sam asks, too hopeful.
“No.”
Their faces fall.
I shake my head. “Everyone’ll know I wrote that song. It’ll get around. Someone will figure it out. And I don’t want it getting back to Hannah.”
There’s a silence after that, heavier than before. Abigail shifts uncomfortably beside me.
“Don’t make this about Hannah,” she says quietly.
But how can I not?
Everything is about her.
Her silence. Her leaving. Her memory. Her ghost still sitting beside me at the lake every night.
“I wish I could,” I say.
And for once, they don’t push me.
We just sit there, the three of us, staring at the dark water—sharing a song, and the ache that came with it.
We sit in silence for a while. The lake is still, except for a few ripples from fish breaching the surface like they’re reminding us that time keeps moving, even when we feel stuck.
Sam starts packing up his laptop, trying to hide the disappointment. Abigail’s still beside me, knees hugged to her chest, looking at the stars like she’s trying not to say what’s clearly on her mind.
And then it hits me—this thing they made... it wasn’t just for them. It wasn’t even just for the band. It was for me. A song pulled out of the wreckage I left behind and built into something real. Something that speaks louder than I ever could.
I sigh, rubbing my eyes, then flick the last of my cigarette into the lake. “Okay,” I mutter.
Sam freezes mid-motion. “What?”
“I said okay,” I repeat. “You can play it.”
Abigail’s head snaps toward me. “Wait—really?!”
“Yeah.” I glance at Sam. “But only if you don’t tell anyone I wrote it. No introductions. No credit. No heartfelt speeches. It’s just... a song.”
Sam blinks, processing. “You sure?”
“I’m not,” I admit. “But if we’re gonna perform something at that city gig, it might as well be something that actually matters.”
Abigail makes a soft sound and throws her arms around me before I can stop her. “You’re not gonna regret this.”
“I already do,” I mumble, but I don’t pull away.
Sam stands, visibly lighter. “We’ll practice it tomorrow. Maybe even record a cleaner version, something live. It’ll be anonymous, like a secret track.”
I smirk faintly. “Guess I’m the ghostwriter now.”
“More like soulwriter,” Abigail says, standing too.
They start walking back toward the path, already buzzing with energy again. I trail behind, letting them get a few steps ahead.
I glance up at the stars, then back toward the lake. My chest still feels like it’s carrying bricks, but there’s a crack in the weight—just enough to breathe.
Maybe letting the world hear that song won’t fix everything.
But maybe... it’ll be the first thing that actually says what I haven’t been able to.
151Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV0ldmxxqHL
and then Add to home screen.