There it is. The real reason they came over.
"It’s just Belle," I correct, coolly.
"Right." Sierra waves a manicured hand. "Anyway, we just… hope this isn’t the new direction for your platform. You know?"
I blink slowly. "No. I don’t know. Please. Enlighten me."
Another shared look. Lyla leans in like she’s about to share a secret.
"We’re aspirational, Elowen. She’s… not," Lyla says, tone low.
Something snaps. Not loud, not visible. Just the quiet kind of break that rearranges me from the inside out.
I look at them. Really look. The tan. The teeth. The perfect, plastic versions of themselves they’ve molded their souls into. And I feel sick.
"My dad died," I say softly.
Sierra’s brows raise, caught off guard. "Right, and we—"
"No," I interrupt. "You don’t get it. I sat in a waiting room while I listened to my mom sob down the hall. I cleaned out the room he built his whole life around. I watched my family break. And the whole time, I wondered what the hell I was doing here,posting hair tutorials and pretending I had anything to say that mattered."
They’re quiet now. Uncomfortable.
Good.
"You want to know what direction I’m going?" I ask, standing and gathering my things. "It’s the one where I stop pretending this—any ofthis—is who I am."
I tuck my laptop under my arm, sling my bag over my shoulder, and give them one last look. "Belle’s more real than either of you will ever be. And frankly? I’m honored to stand beside her."
Then, I leave. And I don’t look back.
Anger—hot and sharp—flares beneath my skin as I walk briskly back to my cold, damp apartment. Grief hums right behind it, steady and low like background static I can’t shut off.
Sierra and Lyla, with their curated smiles and empty words, are everything I no longer want. Everything I might have been.
For years, I chased what they had. The perfect feed. The endless validation. But now all I can see is the emptiness behind it.
I slam the door behind me and the silence swallows me whole. Not peaceful. Hollow.
I sink into the couch, eyes burning, stomach tight. I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t pretend that swiping on eyeshadow, sipping overpriced martinis, and smiling for photos on rooftop parties with strangers pretending to be friends is enough.
It’s not.
Dad is dead.
And me? I close my eyes, press a trembling hand to my chest, and I seehim.
Brooks.
Steady, infuriating, warm-hearted Brooks. I fell in love with him somewhere between the chaos and the quiet, between guilt and grace, grief and healing.
And now? I’m here.
He’s there.
Still holding everything together. For Mom. For Jasper. Forme.
