Grief has this terrible way of turning faces into fog, whether you want them to or not.
Healing feels a lot like forgetting, and forgetting feels too close to betrayal. But I keep going anyway.
Lately, it’s been a struggle. Though not all of it.
Kym’s awful stepfather was arrested thanks to Sterling, and the rest of us (mainly Liam) who spilled the beans about what he was doing to her and pushed her to tell him.
She lives with him now. Sterling, that is.
As for me, I found my guide to overcoming loneliness. After years of thinking it was gone for good, it showed up again. Tucked inside the pocket of an old coat I hadn’t worn in forever. I don’t even remember putting it there.
Miraculously, it was in perfect condition. It looked exactly the way I remembered it—maybe even better.
In other words, it looked taken care of.
Aside from that, I still work at the café sometimes, but less than I used to. Just a few shifts here and there with Camille, who always saves me the last almond croissant when she can. Rick’s still grumpy as ever, but I think he cares in his own weird, protective way. He keeps the jukebox on when I close alone, and he doesn’t ask questions when I stare at the same register screen for ten minutes straight.
I even went with Elliot once. Cody was there too, of course. He and Elliot are a nightmare together—a loud, chaotic, reckless nightmare—but it’s… good. It’s nice seeing Elliot smile again, even if it’s not the same smile he used to have.
At the bookshop, Edna has finally warmed to me. I think. She even offered me tea once, and we talk more than we used to, and I’ve realized I quite like her company.
I reconciled with my sisters, too. Or something like reconciliation. It’s not perfect. It’ll never be what it was. But we’re trying. Or maybe I’m trying. I don’t think I’ll ever get back what I lost with them, but I don’t do it for them.
I do it for me.
Because some peace—I realize—is built, not found.
Right now, I’m just studying. For exams. Hoping I can scrape enough together for a scholarship. Christian offered to help with the money, but I refused.
Mostly because I don’t want to lean on him more than I already have.
I want to do this on my own. I need to.
Maybe that’s what surviving looks like now.
Not moving on. Not forgetting. Just… doing the next thing. And then the next. Building peace out of splinters.
When Liam texted, I was halfway through a practice paper. He had made it sound like an emergency, so I ran.
And now I’m standing on his doorstep, breath fogging in the cold air, heart thudding. I knock, hard—once, twice, three times—and just when I think I’ll knock again, the door swings open.
Ava stands there; arms crossed over her chest.
“About time,” she says.
I double over, panting. “Iranhere!”
She gives me a once-over, eyes sweeping from my windblown hair to my untied shoelaces, then exhales like I’m the most exhausting thing she’s seen all day. “Follow me,” she says, turning on her heel.
Liam’s house is massive—more like a country manor than a home—but I’ve been here enough times that I don’t get lost in it anymore. I know the way the floor creaks by the piano room, the way the hallway light flickers if you don’t hit the switch just right. I know the scent of the place (amber wood and lemon cleaner) and the softness of the rugs.
But as we move through the entryway, I pass the clock.
Thatclock.
Tall and old and so unnecessarily elegant. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a museum instead of someone’s house. It’s stood in that corner for as long as I’ve been cominghere, ticking like a heartbeat through every silence. It used to beloud. Distracting, almost.
But now…
