𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙊𝙀𝙎 𝙂𝙀𝙏 𝙍𝙀𝙈𝙀𝙈𝘽𝙀𝙍𝙀𝘿, 𝘽𝙐𝙏 𝙇𝙀𝙂𝙀𝙉𝘿𝙎 𝙉𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙍 𝘿𝙄𝙀.
What do you get when you throw five musically inclined teenagers in detention and leave them alone for ten minutes?
You get a brand new band, new friendships, and a...
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UNSAID EMILY — CHARLIE GILLESPIE If I could take us back, if I could just do that And write in every empty space the words "I love you" in replace Then maybe time would not erase me
LUKE COULDN'T SLEEP. Every time he closed his eyes, he was brought back to the exact same scene.
He was stood in the center of his living room with a tattered backpack in his hands. His mother stood before him with tear stained cheeks, shouting for him to come to his senses as he shoved clothes into his bag. Her face was painted red and her voice was always strained.
He would fight back, yelling words he didn't mean to say, and watch as hurt flashed over her features. Then, he would grab his belongings in a hurry and storm out of the house. His mom would try and stop him but he'd runaway anyways, leaving her pleas for him to come back ringing in the night.
He couldn't make the nightmares stop, nor could he change them. Because the truth of the matter was that they were memories, a broken piece forever placed in the mosaic of his mind.
It was a haunting scene and he wished he could play it in reverse. If he could, it would no longer be a story of heartbreak, but a story of forgiveness—the prodigal son returning home after all of his mistakes.
He couldn't make things right either. He had a point to prove and any prospect of redemption seemed hopeless for the moment as his pride heavily outweighed his regret.
There was no forgiveness. There was no turning back. There was no escaping the prison of his mind. The only option he had was to stay up until the early hours of the morning when he could no longer think straight and his body betrayed him into an empty slumber.
Tonight was one of those nights.
It was nearing four in the morning. Luke sat in a chair with his journal open in front of him. Smudged ink and dried tear stains stared back at him as he wallowed in his self pity. He could only write a few sentences at a time before a wave of grief washed over him again. His feelings were too big—too deeply felt—to be put into words. He tried and tried, but to no avail. Each letter or lyric scribbled in haste ended up as a crumpled piece of paper lying on the ground.
There were a lot of things he wished he could say to his parents. He wished he could make them understand why he ran away and he wished that he could find it in himself to apologize for it. He didn't regret leaving, but he did regret hurting them.
Leaving was a necessary action he needed to take. He couldn't grow to be the person he wanted to be in their presence, and he knew he had to let time take its course. The band would take off eventually and he would be able to prove to his parents that his dreams were worth chasing. He had time for apologies later.
