isa sanchez grew up in the house next door to the sturniolo triplets - chris, nick, and matt. she'd spent years tangled in their world: porch lights glowing late into summer nights, backyard games, rides to school, laughter that never seemed to run...
she didn't cry. she didn't know why she expected to.
instead, she reached for a pencil and flipped to a blank page.
not perfectly blank, actually—there was a smudge of ink in the corner, a ghost of a line she'd started weeks ago.
she pressed the pencil to the page. wrote one word. then another. erased. rewrote.
it took a while, and some of the lines felt too sharp or too quiet, but slowly, piece by piece, the song began to form itself. the version she'd been trying to pull out of her chest all week was finally here. tired and stubborn and alive.
she leaned back against the wall, notebook resting against her knees. her fingers were cramping. her pencil was dull. but she had it.
she'd written the song.
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
for a long second, all she did was look at it. no music. no pressure. just stillness.
then her phone buzzed again.
she didn't need to look to know it was him.
but she did anyway.
matt:
| i meant it. whenever you're ready.
isa held the notebook to her chest.
the silence stayed. but it didn't hurt this time. it felt like rest.
- chlo speaks!
im so aware i got the song wrong. im not rewriting it so xoxo gossip girl
