Band Member Oneshots

We'll Build Even Stronger Wings, Just This Time... Together

As Jack asks you a life-altering question using a message from your deceased grandmother, you're left to reflect on how strong your butterfly wings have gotten over the years and how with Jack on your side, they'll get even stronger.

"How many journals do you have?"

Jack's loud question startles you as he kneels in front of the massive oak chest containing your childhood and teenage journals, the flipping through the assortment of paper and penmanship types with amazement his attempt at helping you organize the living room in your new apartment.

Glancing between him and the wooden construction, from where you stand across him, in the center of the room, you shrug, shoulders pointed and lips pouted as you reply, "I haven't counted. I've been writing for more or less 20 years, so maybe 350, maximum 500?"

"What's the story behind this one?" He replies curiously, picking up a journal at what seems like random, then extending his arm to hand it to you.

"Jack" you gasp sadly once the hardcover pink spine lies in your palms, the emotional weight of the 80-page, iridescent notebook featuring a cartooned panda and cursive "Notes," bringing back both tear-driven painful, yet honorable memories.

"This is the last one I gave to my grandmother, the one where I wrote my final words, in the hopes that she'd get to read them." you whisper. Then, regretfully, that fate hadn't wanted it that way, you add, "She didn't though, because in her final moments, my mom and I read to her and she passed before we got to the last entry." Feeling an emotion similar as to when you spoke at the funeral, evident in your choked voice, you recall honorably, "but, I live with the thought that, according to my mom, when it was given to her, she lit up because I brought her so much joy."

"Why don't you open it?" He suggests softly and when you look towards him, his expression is solemn, only fueling the fact that you terribly miss her.

"How can you ever think about that?" You cry, completely in disbelief that he'd suggest such a thing in your state, then defeated, explain, "I can't, Jack. Not now. It's too hard"

"(Y/N), it's been six months. Plus, maybe it could bring back some happy memories?" He offers cheerfully, suggesting this to be a form of grief therapy.

As the image of her taking delight in vanilla ice cream—and by extension, how her selfness was still present in her last moments, manifested by the fact that she asked your mom to give yourself and your brother some too—as well as the one of hearing her whisper, "What can I say about you guys?" after telling her how much you loved her and appreciated her, you relent, choosing to push away the negative recollections of the frail, cold and pale body placed in a hospital bed in your grandparents' living room.

When you open the journal, however, a warm sensation tingling in the tips of your fingers, as if her spirit was present, you're confused to find your mom's handwriting covering several yellow sticky notes taped across the first two blank pages of the journal, under the dates covered by the journal. Not having been the one to put them there, curiosity pushes you to read this mysterious note further, in the process, nostalgic sensations bubbling up to the surface.

"Princess,

As you know, I'm too weak to write, so I asked your mom to instead.

I really, I mean really wanted to finish this journal and all the other journals you'll finish, but life doesn't work that way, does it? It's the circle of life (Y/N). My body is tired and it's time I joined my mother, father and sister.

I know I've told you countless times that your journals have helped me in ways you can't imagine, have saved my life even, when I was in atrocious pain and saw no joy in living. I'm telling you again now because you have a gift and by no means should you ever stop writing. Don't give up on your gift, instead spend 15 minutes every day perfecting it.