Not in the way it used to be—movie nights, yelling over video games, Nick screaming about something dumb Matt said. That kind of loud felt alive.
This loud felt… hollow.
You sat on the edge of your bed, phone face down beside you, staring at nothing in particular. The ceiling had a crack shaped like a lightning bolt—you’d noticed it years ago, back when things didn’t feel like they were slowly falling apart.
Downstairs, you could hear Chris laughing. Nick chimed in, dramatic as always. Matt said something quieter, but it still made them laugh harder.
They sounded normal.
That was the worst part.
Because you weren’t.
You pulled your hoodie sleeves over your hands, tucking your fingers away like if you hid enough of yourself, maybe everything else would disappear too.
I’ve been having a hard time adjusting…
You didn’t even remember when things started slipping. It wasn’t one big moment—it was a hundred tiny ones. Missed calls. Ignored texts. “I’m just tired” turning into “I don’t want to be here.”
A soft knock broke through your thoughts.
“Hey,” Matt’s voice. Gentle. Careful. “Can I come in?”
You hesitated.
Not because you didn’t want him there—but because you didn’t know how to be okay in front of him.
Still, you forced out, “Yeah.”
The door creaked open, and he stepped in slowly, like you might shatter if he moved too fast.
He looked at you for a second too long.
You hated that look.
“What?” you muttered.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, sitting down on the floor across from you instead of the bed. Like he didn’t want to crowd you. “You’ve just… been up here a lot.”
You shrugged. “So?”
“So…” He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “We miss you.”
We.
That word hit harder than it should’ve.
“I’m literally here,” you said, a little sharper than you meant to.
Matt nodded, but didn’t argue.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretched between you. Heavy. Familiar.
You wanted to explain it—to tell him that your brain felt like it was constantly running and completely stuck at the same time. That even getting out of bed felt like climbing something impossible.
But the words wouldn’t come out right.
They never did.
“I’m trying,” you said instead, barely above a whisper.
Matt looked up immediately.
And for a second, you wished you hadn’t said it—because now it was real. Now someone else knew.
“I know,” he said.
You blinked. “You don’t—”
“I do.” His voice was still soft, but steadier now. “Maybe not exactly how you feel. But I know you’re trying.”
Your throat tightened.
Because that was the whole thing, wasn’t it?
You were trying.
And it still didn’t feel like enough.
Downstairs, Nick yelled something about ordering food. Chris shouted back. The world kept moving.
But up here, in your room, everything felt paused.
Matt leaned back against the wall, not pushing, not fixing—just staying.
And for the first time all day, the silence didn’t feel quite as heavy.
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Summary: Zoe meets Matt through Madison at a party, and they instantly click, sharing a soft connection.
The first time Zoe met Matt, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Madison had dragged her to a small get-together at a friend’s place in L.A., promising it would be “lowkey” and “not overwhelming.” Zoe should’ve known better. The house was warm, music echoing through dim hallways, voices layered over bass.
“Just relax,” Madison whispered, squeezing her hand. “You’ll like him.”
“Like who?” Zoe asked.
Madison didn’t answer. She was already waving someone over.
Matt crossed the room like he hadn’t even noticed the noise. Dark curls slightly messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes scanning—until they landed on her.
And for a second, everything actually quieted.
Zoe would later swear the world slowed down. The lights blurred. The music dulled. It felt exactly like the lyric she’d replayed in her head a hundred times before:
“This night is sparkling”
And it was. Not because of the party. Not because of the city lights through the window.
Because he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.
“Zoe,” Madison said, nudging her forward. “This is Matt.”
He smiled—soft, not the camera-ready grin she’d seen online. Real. Nervous, even.
“Hi,” he said, like he’d forgotten every other word in existence.
“Hi,” she managed back.
There was this awkward, fragile pause. The kind that could either crumble or turn into something.
It turned into something.
They ended up on the balcony, away from the crowd. The air was cooler, quieter. Zoe leaned against the railing, heart pounding way harder than it should for someone she’d known for all of ten minutes.
“You don’t really like these things, do you?” Matt asked gently.
She laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” he said. “You keep looking like you’re planning your escape route.”
“I was,” she admitted.
He smiled again. “Don’t. I’m glad you stayed.”
That did something to her chest.
They talked about stupid things at first—favorite movies, the worst fan encounters, Madison’s chaotic driving. But then it shifted. It always does, when two people click like that.
He told her about the pressure of being watched all the time. She told him about feeling invisible in rooms like this. He listened. Really listened.
And when he looked at her, it wasn’t distracted. It wasn’t performative. It was careful.
Like he was memorizing her.
By the time someone slid the balcony door open and yelled that they were starting some drinking game inside, Zoe felt dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Inside, the music was louder now. People were dancing. Laughing. Matt stayed close to her—not touching, just… near. Like he didn’t want to lose her in the crowd.
At one point, Madison grabbed Zoe’s arm and pulled her aside.
“So?” she demanded, eyes sparkling.
Zoe tried to play it cool. Failed miserably. “He’s—” She stopped, pressing her lips together. “He’s different.”
Madison’s smile faltered just slightly.
“What?” Zoe asked, stomach tightening.
Madison hesitated. “I mean… yeah. He is. Just don’t overthink it, okay?”
Overthink what?
Zoe’s chest filled with something uneasy.
When she found Matt again, he was laughing at something someone else said. A girl stood a little too close to him. Her hand brushed his arm like it had done it before.
Zoe told herself it didn’t matter.
She’d known him for maybe two hours.
Still, something sharp pressed under her ribs.
Matt caught her staring. His smile softened when he saw her. He excused himself immediately and walked over.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she lied.
His brows pulled together. “Did I do something?”
“No. I just—” She almost laughed at herself. “This is stupid. I don’t even know you.”
“Then get to know me,” he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered.
But the girl from earlier was watching. Waiting.
Zoe swallowed. “Are you… seeing someone?”
The question hung between them, fragile and terrifying.
Matt hesitated.
It was barely a second. But it was enough.
“Not—” he started. “It’s complicated.”
Of course it was.
Zoe nodded like she understood. Like it didn’t feel like the floor had shifted under her feet.
Complicated meant history. Complicated meant unfinished. Complicated meant she would be the one who got hurt.
Music swelled again, and for a moment she thought she might cry, which was ridiculous. She didn’t cry over boys she’d just met.
But this wasn’t just some random guy.
This was the kind of connection people wrote songs about.
And all she could hear in her head was:
“Please don’t be in love with someone else”
Matt stepped closer. “Zoe.”
She looked up at him. His eyes were searching, almost panicked.
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I’m not in love with anyone.”
“But?”
He exhaled slowly. “There’s just… history. And people assume things. And sometimes it’s easier to not correct them.”
Her throat tightened. “So what am I supposed to be?”
He didn’t answer right away.
That scared her more than anything.
She took a step back, needing space before she embarrassed herself.
“I don’t want to be another complicated thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to feel stupid for thinking this—” She gestured between them. “—was something.”
“It is something,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too sure.
His hand brushed hers, tentative. Electricity shot up her arm.
“I’ve never felt this before,” he admitted, voice barely audible over the music. “Not like this. You walked in and I just—” He shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t even know how to explain it.”
Her pulse was loud in her ears.
“Then explain it,” she whispered.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth from his skin.
“It feels like if you walk out that door tonight,” he said, “I’m going to spend weeks wishing I’d said more. Done more. Asked for your number sooner.”
Her breath caught.
“Then ask,” she said.
For a split second, neither of them moved.
Then he smiled slow, relieved, almost disbelieving.
“Can I see you again, Zoe?”
The way he said her name felt like a promise.
The party noise faded again. The complications, the girl, the assumptions—they were still there. Still messy. Still real.
But so was this.
Zoe nodded.
And when their fingers finally intertwined, it didn’t feel complicated.
Usually, Nick’s laugh echoed down the hallway, Chris’s music thumped faintly through the walls, and Matt’s voice carried from the kitchen as he teased everyone about not doing the dishes. But tonight, the only sound was the soft hum of the heater and the faint creak of footsteps—careful, cautious, like everyone was afraid to break something fragile.
Their little sister hadn’t left her room in hours.
Matt hovered outside her door, fingers brushing the faded paint. “Should I knock?” he whispered, glancing back at Nick and Chris.
Chris shook his head. “She didn’t answer me earlier.”
Nick chewed the inside of his cheek, worry carved into his expression. “We have to try again. She hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
They all went quiet.
It had been three weeks since her best friend died. Three weeks since her world simply… stopped. The triplets had watched her fade like a dying lightbulb—still flickering, but weaker every day.
Nick knocked gently. “Sis? Can we come in?”
Silence.
Then a small, tired voice: “Yeah.”
Matt pushed the door open. Her room felt colder than the rest of the house. Blankets were piled around her like armor, and the soft instrumental of “Youth” by Daughter played from her speaker—her favorite song before everything shattered.
“You should eat something,” Chris said softly, approaching her bed. He wasn’t bossy, not now. His voice trembled like he didn’t want to scare her further. “Even a little.”
“I’m not hungry,” she murmured, eyes distant.
Nick sat on the floor beside her bed, knees to his chest. “We’re worried about you. Like… actually worried.”
She didn’t respond. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, trapped in some memory they couldn’t reach.
Matt slowly handed her a water bottle. “You don’t have to talk about anything. Just… don’t disappear on us. Please.”
Her fingers brushed his, but she didn’t take it.
The music swelled, the lyrics soft and broken:
“And if you’re still breathing, you’re the lucky ones…”
Her breath hitched.
She curled in on herself, shoulders trembling—not loudly, not dramatically. Just the kind of quiet crying that punched the triplets in the chest because it was the sound of someone trying not to fall apart and failing.
Nick reached up and held her hand tightly. “We love you, okay? Nothing hurts too much for us to fix.”
But she only shook her head.
“Some things don’t get fixed,” she whispered.
The triplets looked at each other, helpless in a way they had never been before.
Chris wiped her cheek with his sleeve. “We’re not leaving you. Ever.”
She looked at them—really looked—and the exhaustion in her eyes was deeper than sleep could fix. It was grief that lived in the bones.
The song faded into the next verse:
“My youth is yours…”
She closed her eyes.
“I just want the pain to stop,” she whispered.
And that was the moment—small and quiet—that they realized what they were losing. Not all at once, but piece by piece, like sand slipping through their fingers.
Her room was colder than the night before.
Matt knocked. “Breakfast is ready—your favorite.”
No answer.
Chris tried next. “Come on, sis. We’ll eat with you.”
Still nothing.
Nick opened the door.
The room was still, the blankets rising and falling only slightly with her shallow breaths. She was alive, but faint—too faint. The triplets rushed to her side. Matt shook her gently while Chris called for help, voice breaking. Nick knelt beside her, holding her hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.
She didn’t wake.
The hospital room was quiet, lit with sterile white light. Machines beeped softly, a fragile rhythm. The triplets sat around her bed, each holding onto her like she might slip away if they let go.
Doctors said she’d stopped eating for too long. Her body was weak. She had collapsed in her sleep.
“She’s stable,” they said.
“But she’s not improving.”
The triplets stayed for days—reading to her, playing her music, telling stories, begging her to come back.
But she never opened her eyes again.
Her heartbeat slowed.
The machines grew quieter.
The world dimmed.
And to the sound of “Youth” playing softly from Nick’s phone, she slipped away—peacefully, quietly, like a candle burning out in an empty room.
The triplets stood outside the hospital, the winter wind cold against their cheeks.
Chris wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “We tried.”
Matt shook his head. “It wasn’t enough.”
Nick stared at the sky, voice cracking. “She wasn’t broken. She was hurting. And we didn’t see how bad it was.”
They stood together, three brothers held up by each other, grieving the sister they loved more than anything.
Chris had never hated silence more than he did that night.
It wasn’t the comfortable kind — not the kind where you both scrolled on your phones with your legs tangled together on the couch. Not the kind where Matt and Nick were yelling in the background while you two shared a look that said we’re in our own world.
This silence was sharp.
Heavy.
The kind that pressed against his chest until breathing felt optional.
You were sitting at the edge of his bed, staring at the floor like it had answers. Chris stood near the door, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’d been replaying the argument for hours. Every word. Every pause. Every look on your face.
“Are we okay?” he finally asked.
Your shoulders stiffened.
That pause.
God, he hated that pause.
“I don’t know, Chris.”
The words sliced through him.
Outside, snow hit the window in soft taps, but inside his head everything was loud. Too loud. Memories flashed like headlights on a dark road.
The first time you met.
The first time he held your hand.
That stupid late-night drive when you two got lost and laughed about it for an hour straight.
It used to feel so easy.
Now it felt like walking on thin ice.
“I feel like we keep almost losing each other,” you said quietly. “Every time we fight, it feels like it’s the end.”
Chris swallowed. He wasn’t good at this part. He was good at joking, at deflecting, at turning everything into a bit for the camera. But this wasn’t content. This was real.
“I get scared,” he admitted. His voice was softer now. “I get scared that one day you’re just gonna decide it’s too much.”
You finally looked at him.
And there it was.
That same fear in your eyes.
“You think I don’t get scared?” you whispered. “You’re busy all the time. The internet watches everything. Sometimes I feel like I’m competing with the world for you.”
That hit.
Hard.
Chris stepped closer, running a hand through his hair. His heart was racing the way it does right before something bad happens — like standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if the ground is stable.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “But I don’t know how to do this perfectly.”
“I’m not asking for perfect,” you said, your voice cracking. “I just don’t want to feel like we’re constantly trying to survive.”
The room felt smaller.
The air thinner.
For a second, Chris imagined it — you walking out that door. The bed feeling empty. Filming videos pretending he was fine. Laughing when he wasn’t.
No.
Absolutely not.
He moved in front of you, kneeling slightly so he was eye-level.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
You did.
“I’m in this,” he continued. “Even when it’s messy. Even when we fight. Even when I’m overwhelmed and you’re overwhelmed and it feels like everything’s crashing down.” His voice shook just a little. “I don’t care if it’s hard. I just don’t want to give up.”
Your lip trembled.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” you whispered.
Chris let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But we don’t have to run from the storm. We can just… stand in it. Together.”
Silence again.
But this one was different.
You reached for his hand.
He laced your fingers together like he was anchoring himself to something solid.
“Promise me,” you said. “If it gets scary again, we talk. We don’t assume the worst.”
“I promise,” he replied instantly. “No more silent spirals.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And suddenly the room didn’t feel so suffocating.
The snow outside had slowed.
The storm wasn’t gone.
But it wasn’t destroying everything either.
Chris pulled you into his chest, holding you tighter than usual — not because he was afraid you’d disappear, but because he finally understood that loving someone wasn’t about avoiding the woods.
He just liked silence more than the sound of you leaving.
The house was unusually quiet tonight. Chris and Nick were out, filming something dumb and loud and chaotic. The kind of chaos that used to distract him.
But now it was just him.
And the guitar.
It leaned against the wall of his bedroom like it was waiting.
He hadn’t touched it in weeks.
Not since you left.
Not since that night.
Matt sat on the edge of his bed, staring at it like it might start talking.
Because that’s the problem with guitars.
They remember.
Every chord he’d ever played for you lived in that wood. Every soft melody from 2 a.m. when you couldn’t sleep. Every half-written love song he swore wasn’t about you — even though it obviously was.
He exhaled shakily.
“I’m not doing this,” he muttered.
But his hands were already reaching for it.
The second his fingers brushed the strings, his chest tightened.
The first chord rang out — soft, raw, unfinished.
And suddenly you were everywhere.
Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor.
Laughing when he messed up.
Resting your head against his shoulder while he played something slow and quiet.
“You’re gonna write a song about me one day,” you’d teased.
He never answered.
Because he already had.
He just never let you hear it.
Matt swallowed hard and played the progression again. The one he’d written the night after your first real fight. The one he pretended was “just random.”
It wasn’t random.
It was fear.
Fear of losing you.
Fear of loving you too much.
Fear of not being enough.
That night — the night you left — it wasn’t explosive. There was no screaming. No slammed doors.
Just distance.
“You shut down every time something gets hard,” you’d said quietly. “I can’t keep guessing what you’re feeling.”
He wanted to tell you everything.
That he felt too much.
That it overwhelmed him.
That loving you felt like holding something fragile and priceless and being terrified he’d drop it.
But the words got stuck.
So you walked away thinking he didn’t care enough.
And now the guitar was reminding him of everything he never said.
He stopped playing abruptly, pressing his palm against the strings to silence them.
The ringing still echoed in his ears.
He hated that sound.
Because it sounded like goodbye.
Matt leaned forward, elbows on his knees, guitar resting against his thigh.
“I cared,” he whispered to the empty room. “I still do.”
His voice cracked.
The worst part wasn’t that you were gone.
It was that he finally knew what he should’ve said.
He should’ve told you he was scared.
Not of you.
Not of commitment.
But of how deeply he felt everything.
He picked up the guitar again, slower this time.
Gentler.
And instead of playing the old chords, he started something new.
Soft.
Honest.
No hiding.
The melody trembled at first, but it steadied as he kept going.
If you were here, you’d tease him for being dramatic.
But you’d also listen.
You always listened.
Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t stop playing.
Because maybe he wasn’t scared of the guitar.
Maybe he was scared of what it revealed.
And for the first time, he let it reveal everything.
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