And I left him.
I leftthem.
Because I couldn’t breathe in that house anymore. Because I didn’t know how to sit with the silence and not unravel. Because loving Brooks meant staying still, and staying still terrifies me.
But this silence? The silence here?
It’s worse.
When the anger fades, all that’s left is grief, and this ache for something that feels real again.
So, I do what I always do.
I run.
But I don’t want to be this person anymore. The girl who pretends. Who smiles for the camera when she’s quietly breaking. Who sells an image she doesn’t even recognize anymore.
None of it matters. Maybe it never did.
Frustrated tears prick at my eyes as I swipe at them with the back of my hand. The kitchen is dim, the only light coming from a weak shaft of sun filtering through the blinds. Dust floats in the air. A dead plant slumps in the middle of the table. That feels about right.
I grab my phone, prop it against the pot, and sit down across from it. I breathe through my nose and try to find something steady inside me.
Be real, Elowen. Be honest. Be brave.
My hands are shaking so badly the phone almost slips.
I hit record. No smile. No filter. I slide the sunglasses off my head and set them aside. Then I just... speak.
"I lost someone I love recently," I say, my voice raspy, raw. "I know a lot of you have probably been wondering where I’ve been. Why I haven’t been posting. Why things feel different." I pause, gathering the words from somewhere deeper than usual. "The truth is… it’s hard to pretend everything’s okay when my world has literally tilted off its axis."
I glance at the screen. I look tired. Pale. Real.
"Some of you think I owe you an explanation. Maybe I do. I’ve spent the last few years showing you what you think is my life—the outfits, the skincare routines, the perfect lighting. But none of that is real. It’s edited. Curated. Filtered."
I gesture around the small, lifeless apartment. "This is the truth. This space. These feelings. Me." I swallow, hard. "And I’m sorry. I sold you a lie. I should have given you more than smoke and mirrors. You deserved someone who was real with you. Honest. And I wasn’t."
My eyes sting again. I blink fast, trying not to fall apart. Not fully.
"The internet says it wants authenticity, but only if it’s palatable. Pretty. But I’m not pretty right now. I’m grieving. I’m unraveling a little more each day. But I’m trying." My voice breaks a little. "And if you still want to be here—to see the real me, not the illusion—I’d love to figure this next chapter out with you."
I end the video.
No edits. No music. No filter.
Just me.
And I hit post.
I don’t bother checking the views or comments or likes. I just… don’t care. Not like I used to.
Sierra and Lyla can keep chasing validation through ring lights and shopping hauls. What I miss is something real.
I miss Brooks. I miss Jasper. I miss beingknown—and accepted—for who I am, without all the editing.
I crawl into bed and open Brooks’ Lumberjack Hottie account on my phone. I scroll through the videos. Not for the shirtless thirst traps, though those don’t hurt, but for the way his eyes search the lens, like he’s searching for me. For the quiet smile he only gives when he forgets the camera is on. The one he used to giveme.
I miss that version of myself. I miss him. But I haven’t reached out. And he hasn’t either.
