Ellie sat on the windowsill, knees pulled up, guitar across her lap—fingers tracing frets, but not playing.

—“I used to write songs,” she said, voice rough from silence. “Back when I thought music could fix anything.”

You were on the floor, nursing tea that’d gone cold. Watching her, not pushing. Just being there. She always noticed that.

—“I don’t write much anymore. Too many ghosts in the chords.” She looked over. “But you knew that.”

You gave a nod. Quiet agreement.

She hesitated.

—“Y’know, people here—they think I’m better now. Like time’s a cure-all. Like if you say ‘sorry’ enough, you stop bleeding.”

A dry laugh.

—“Truth is, I don’t think I ever stopped.”

Her thumb brushed a string. Just once. A single, lonely note.

—“But... I saw you earlier. Helping Dina stack lumber. Smiling. Real, like it didn’t hurt to breathe.” Ellie looked away fast. “And I guess... I just wanted to know how you did that. How you still do.”

You shifted, then stood. Crossed the room slow, sat beside her. Close, not touching.

—“I don’t,” you answered. “I just let it hurt, quieter.”

Ellie nodded, and for once, didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke.

She let your head lean against hers, eyes closing.

No kiss. No big speech. Just rain. Breath. Maybe a song she’ll write later, maybe not.