He is healing
763 Words
Lina’s POV
When I woke up this morning, I didn’t expect my heart to be this heavy and this light at the same time.
Kai told me something last night that he hadn’t told anyone—not even Jesse
A letter from his twin brother.
Not a dramatic goodbye. Not a cry for help. Just a quiet, aching truth tucked between pages of a forgotten songbook.
He didn’t read it to me. He didn’t need to.
Because when he talked about it, when he said Nathan’s words were living inside him—I believed him.
I felt… honored.
Because he let me in.
Even just a little.
---
At school, I try not to look for him.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I do look for him.
Every time I round a corner or push open a classroom door, there’s this flicker of hope that he’ll be there. Not withdrawn, not shadowed by memory—but present.
And for once, he is.
He’s by the courtyard tree. Sitting on the low wall, scribbling in his book.
But when he looks up and catches my eye, something shifts. It’s not just a glance. It’s a question. A thread. A beginning.
He smiles—small, tentative—but real.
And I smile back.
---
We don’t talk until lunch.
Not because we’re avoiding each other—but because we’re... thinking. Feeling. Processing.
Aria slides into the seat beside me in the cafeteria, raising an eyebrow. “You’re glowing. Gross.”
I laugh, nudging her. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously,” she says, stealing a fry. “What happened? Did you and Kai finally write a sad boy ballad and cry under the moon?”
I roll my eyes. “We talked. That’s all.”
She studies me for a second longer, then softens. “Good. He needs that.”
“You mean, he needs me?” I tease.
Aria snorts.
---
Later, after school, I find him by the music room.
He doesn’t say hi. Just lifts his chin like he was waiting for me.
“I added something to the song,” he says quietly. “Want to hear it?”
My heart skips. “Yeah.”
He leads me inside, and the second the door shuts, it’s like we’re in our own world again.
He sits at the piano, fingers poised, notebook open beside him.
And then he plays.
It’s simple. Soft. Like a whisper.
When he sings, his voice is low, careful. Not because he’s unsure—but because he’s protecting something sacred.
The lyrics are new, but they fit. Like they were always meant to be there.
> “Grief taught me silence...
But music gave it a voice again.”
My throat tightens.
He finishes the line and turns to me, his expression unreadable.
I don’t say anything. Just walk over and sit beside him on the bench.
“I like it,” I say. “A lot.”
He doesn’t smile, but something shifts in his posture. A release.
“I keep wondering,” he murmurs, “if Nathan knew I’d find the letter. If he left it there on purpose.”
I rest my hand on the piano, close but not quite touching his. “ I believe he knew that you’d need it. Eventually.”
Silence settles between us again—but it’s not empty. It’s full of everything we’re still learning to say.
---
When I get home, I write.
Not lyrics.
Not poetry.
Just... thoughts.
Words I haven’t shared with anyone else.
Lina’s notebook —
He lets grief sit with him like an old friend.
I don’t think I could ever be that brave.
But maybe I don’t need to be.
Maybe I just need to sit beside him.
Kai is healing
he is slowly getting himself back
He still flinches when certain songs play.
Still goes quiet when someone mentions twins or last year or the
I don’t push.
I wait.
Because healing doesn’t come with a deadline.
---
Then, three days later, I see it.
A flyer on the school bulletin board.
OPEN MIC NIGHT — Submissions Open
Friday | 7 PM | Auditorium
And for some reason, my heart jumps.
Not out of nerves.
Out of possibility.
---
That afternoon, I find him in the usual spot, beneath the courtyard tree, scribbling in his songbook again.
I drop the flyer on top of his page.
He glances down.
Raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”
I shrug. “Only if you are.”
He hesitates.
Then, slowly, smiles.
And it’s a yes.
- Writer
