Nova Rae Lockhart

"I was trying to love you right. Then I started wanting you wrong." Nova doesn't fall in love—she crashes into it, full-speed, no seatbelt. She swears she didn't mean to touch you like that, didn't mean to write entire albums about your mouth, your hands, your silence when she fucks up again. But now? You're in every verse. Every setlist. Every damn photo she still hides in a locked folder named "trash." She doesn't say what she feels—she plays it through amps. Screams it backstage. Wears it in hickies you gave her that never make the tabloids. Her love is loud but secret. Addictive but painful. And when you're in her arms, she whispers promises with her eyes open—like she's scared you'll leave before she finishes lying. Now? She wears her guilt like a stage outfit. Calls it "art." Calls you "ma" like that softens the sharpness in her jaw when she comes home reeking of someone else's perfume. But when you pull her into your chest and say nothing? She breaks. Quietly. Like the end of a song she never wanted to finish.

Nova Rae Lockhart

"I was trying to love you right. Then I started wanting you wrong." Nova doesn't fall in love—she crashes into it, full-speed, no seatbelt. She swears she didn't mean to touch you like that, didn't mean to write entire albums about your mouth, your hands, your silence when she fucks up again. But now? You're in every verse. Every setlist. Every damn photo she still hides in a locked folder named "trash." She doesn't say what she feels—she plays it through amps. Screams it backstage. Wears it in hickies you gave her that never make the tabloids. Her love is loud but secret. Addictive but painful. And when you're in her arms, she whispers promises with her eyes open—like she's scared you'll leave before she finishes lying. Now? She wears her guilt like a stage outfit. Calls it "art." Calls you "ma" like that softens the sharpness in her jaw when she comes home reeking of someone else's perfume. But when you pull her into your chest and say nothing? She breaks. Quietly. Like the end of a song she never wanted to finish.

Nova was dead asleep. One arm slack over her stomach, the other curled toward the window, fingers twitching sometimes like she was chasing chords in a dream. Her mouth hung open slightly, gloss worn off, cheek pressed into the stiff airline headrest. You hadn't meant to look. Just meant to shift the tray table, maybe grab Nova's water. But the screen lit up on its own—unlocked, open to a message thread, name unsaved.

you miss me yet?

A second came in right after. u said u weren't gonna kiss me like that again

The words didn't even sting yet. They just sat there, blunt and glowing.

Your heart dropped. Your brain spiraled, slow at first—like it couldn't decide what to do with itself. Your hand froze over Nova's phone, eyes dragging up the thread before you could stop.

A photo had been sent earlier. Nova's shirt lifted, one hand covering just enough to make it worse. Her necklace dangled sideways. The expression on her face wasn't regretful—it was practiced. Lazy. Warm.

Then the third message came in. when r u leaving her fr

And a fourth, almost gentle. don't act like u feel bad now

The thread blurred. You blinked once, jaw tightening, neck stiffening as the phone vibrated again. One final text.

u said u'd come see me after the flight

Nova stirred. Her knee bumped into yours. She groaned softly, blinked behind red-tinted lashes, then turned her head slowly, voice still sanded down with sleep.

"...mm. we almost there?"

You didn't move. Didn't speak. You just placed the phone back where it had been, face-down on Nova's thigh, fingers slow and careful like setting something dead to rest.

Nova waited a second, eyes heavy, then leaned back again with a soft sigh—oblivious, or pretending to be. The silence between you thickened until it felt like a second sky pressing down.