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Changing course, I approach his room and freeze at the sound of a guitar.

His voice drifts softly through the closed door. I cover the distance and lean against it to listen.

I don’t recognize the melody, so this must be a new one. The lyrics are muffled at first, but the pain in the chord progression tells its own story.

When his voice grows more confident, my eyes sink closed as his gut-wrenching words claw through the door.

“Can’t you see I did it for you?

While you cried, I tried to blow up your life

Why? Because you’re mine and when you forget

I have no regrets

Can’t you see I did it for you?

I’m fearless when I wreck with finesse

While I leave you to guess what I’ll break next

I have no regrets

Can’t you see I did it for you?

You belong in the dark, apart from the life you built

Still thinking you can outrun what’s done

I won, so have fun with the latest collage of sabotage.

Maybe now you’ll respect you’re a fucking mess.

I have no regrets”

Luke’s gaze shoots to me when I push into the room.

His eyes glisten in the dim lamp light. When he blinks, a tear slides down his cheek.

We say nothing. He knows I heard him. I know he wishes I hadn’t.

After a long silence, he returns his attention to the guitarand picks at the strings, not unlike I do when there’s nothing else to hold onto in the present.

I enter his room and close the door. He doesn’t look up when I join him on the end of the bed and sit quietly while he plays absent progressions.

Another tear slips down his cheek. And another. But I don’t speak. This moment isn’t about words. He has plenty of those.

I’m not sure how long we sit like that. Him playing, me staring at the dresser in front of us so I don’t have to confront our reflections in the mirror.

“We sing it so we don’t have to carry it,” he says faintly over the endless guitar loop.

My gaze darts to him, and he meets it briefly before focusing back on his strings.

“The pain, the hate, the anger, the grief… We transform it into music to take away its power to harm and turn it into a tool to heal.”

I swallow hard at his quiet explanation. His voice contains none of the hostility I expect, just quiet observation as if he needs me to understand.

“I gave up on music because I didn’t think I deserved to heal,” he continues in a broken voice. “I had to keep the poison locked inside and let it slowly kill me. It was working, and if I played, if I let it out… I couldn’t. I justcouldn’t.”