Momo_ducky1000000000
Isaac Hale doesn't feel much these days. At twenty, he drifts through college with his hoodies, headphones and a half-hearted pulse, haunted by a sadness he no longer tries to explain. He's not looking for a miracle, he's just trying to make it to tomorrow.
Then he hears her.
Lena Packam is a songwriter with stars in her eyes and a secret stitched beneath her ribs. Bright, chaotic, and unapologetically alive, she crashes into Isaac's world like a melody he didn't know he needed. She makes sadness sound like poetry and hope feel like rebellion.
As the two grow closer, through midnight walks, forgotten pianos, and half-written songs. Isaac begins to believe in something again. Maybe even someone.
"What are you working on?" she asks. The question lands somewhere between casual and intentional. Like she's not trying to pry, but she wouldn't mind if I answered properly.
"Nothing," I say automatically. She raises an eyebrow.
"That's a lot of nothing," she says, nodding toward my notebook. I glance down at it, then back at her. For a second, I consider brushing it off again. Ending the conversation before it really starts. That's usually easier. Safer. But something about the way she's sitting there, not pushing, not judging, makes it harder to shut it down completely.
"I just write," I say finally.
"Write what?"
"Stuff."
The corner of her mouth lifts.
"Wow," she says. "That clears it up completely."
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.
"Poems, I guess", I add. "Sometimes."
Her expression shifts, not dramatically, just enough to register interest.
"Sometimes?"
"Sometimes they're not worth finishing."She leans back slightly in her chair, studying me in a way that feels... thoughtful, not invasive.
"Or maybe you just don't let yourself finish them," she says. I don't respond to that. Not because I don't have an answer. Just because she might be right.