The Start 30

Lily’s POV

Everything hurt.

Not in a sharp, sudden way, but in a dull, heavy one, as if my body had been fighting gravity for hours and had finally lost.

The first thing I heard was a soft voice — ragged, familiar, and shaking with emotion.
“Hey…”

The first thing I felt was warmth.
A hand wrapped tightly around mine, callused, trembling, and so achingly real.

I opened my eyes.
And there he was.

Jake.

His hair was a mess, his hoodie twisted and wrinkled, and his bloodshot eyes were brimming with tears.
But he was smiling.

And seeing him — seeing that smile — made me cry.

“Hey,” I croaked, my throat raw.

He let out a breath that sounded like a sob and a prayer wrapped into one.
“God, Clover. You’re awake.”

I blinked hard, trying to steady myself as the hospital ceiling spun above me. The lights were dimmed, but the beeping of machines around me gave it away.
I was alive.
And Jake was here.

He didn’t let go of my hand.
Not once as he began to tell me everything.

He told me how I had fallen.
How he had watched it happen — how helpless he had felt, like some twisted slow-motion horror film unfolding before his eyes.

How he had thought — even just for a moment — that he might lose me.

“I didn’t care who saw,” he whispered, voice thick with the weight of it all. “I just held you. And prayed.”

He paused, swallowing hard as his jaw tightened.

“Your head hit first,” he said, looking away, his whole body tense. “You didn’t move. Not once.”

Tears blurred my vision.
“Jake…” I whispered.

“But you’re here,” he said, fighting to steady his breathing. “And you’re okay.”

“Because of you,” I said.

He leaned down and kissed the back of my hand, lingering there as if grounding himself in the proof that I was still alive.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“But I do,” I said, squeezing his hand as tightly as I could manage.

Then he told me about his brother.

At first, his voice was steady, like he had practiced the words a hundred times in his head.
But halfway through, it cracked.

He told me about the expectations that had been piled onto his brother’s shoulders. About the pressure that crushed him. About the silence that grew until there was no air left to breathe.

About the shoes left neatly at the edge of the bridge.

“I didn’t get there in time,” Jake said softly. “But with you… I did.”

I reached for him with my trembling hand, brushing my fingertips against his cheek.
“Jake…”

“I don’t want you to carry my grief,” he whispered, his forehead resting against my knuckles. “But I want you to know where I come from. Why I held on so tight.”

Tears rolled down both our cheeks, blurring everything else away.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. And I meant it — not just for his brother, but for everything Jake had been carrying alone, in silence.

He nodded, his breath hitching.
“He’d have liked you,” he said with a broken smile.

The next few days blurred into something soft and quiet.

Jake never left my side.

He brought snacks I barely touched. He held my hand through endless scans. He sat next to me when I signed the papers that officially cut legal ties with my parents.

Erin, Willow, and Maisy stayed in rotation, brushing my hair, sneaking me chocolate, and reminding me — over and over — that I wasn’t alone anymore.

The day I signed the restraining order, my hands didn’t shake.
Jake was there, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, whispering into my hair,
“You’re free now.”

And for the first time, I believed it.

A week later, we were lying on the floor of his tiny room, pizza boxes stacked like crooked towers around us, when he said,
“I want to show you something.”

I raised an eyebrow.
“Is it another tattoo?”

He laughed.
“No.”

He sat up, reached into the pocket of his hoodie, and pulled out a small velvet box.

I sat up too fast, my heart leaping into my throat.
“Jake—”

He opened it carefully.

Inside, it wasn’t a ring.
It was a key.
And tucked next to it, a tiny photo of a small white house with a porch, wildflowers crowding the front yard, and light pouring from its windows.

“I bought us this,” he said, looking nervous and proud all at once.

I blinked at him, struggling to catch up.
“Wait… what?”

“When we graduate,” he said quickly. “Not now, obviously. But it’s ours. I’ve been saving. Working weekends. Talking to my uncle. It’s not big, but it’s real.”

My hand flew to my mouth, a sob catching in my chest.
“You—this—Jake—”

“I want to build something with you, Lily,” he said, his voice shaking.

My voice broke as I whispered,
“Yes.”

He looked up at me, almost afraid he had heard wrong.

I nodded.
“Yes to all of it.”

And then he smiled — not the careful smile he usually wore, but a real one, bright and open and free, like he finally believed he deserved happiness.

In the following weeks, I decided what I wanted to do with my life.

I didn’t want law.
I didn’t want expectations.
I wanted to help people who had felt like I once did — broken and invisible.

So I enrolled in a program to study psychology.

Jake was the first person I told.
He kissed my forehead and said,
“You’re going to change lives, Clover. I know you’ll do great things.”

I hoped he was right.

One morning, a few months later, I opened the door to our apartment to grab the mail.

There wasn’t much — a pizza coupon, a bill, the usual junk.
And an envelope.

Plain white.
No return address.
Just my name written across it in handwriting I didn’t recognize.

Curious, I opened it right there in the doorway.

Inside was a single note.

No greeting.
No signature.

“Hi, Lily. I’m Liam, your older brother. I’ve been trying to find you for years. Can we meet up?”

I stared at the letter, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack open.

I have a brother?
He’s been trying to find me for years?

What is happening?