Real looks like Mom leaving the house in Dad’s hoodie and yesterday’s mascara and not apologizing for either. Real looks like Jasper texting me photos of ugly rental kitchens in Houston and asking which one “feels like somewhere we could bring a baby home to. Hypothetically, calm down." Real looks like Brooks fixing a loose cabinet hinge and kissing my shoulder in the same motion.
I used to think being ‘put together’ was the goal. Now. I think being honest is the goal. I’m a lot messier. But I’m closer to myself than I’ve ever been.
This morning, I filmed Mom humming to herself while she clipped basil from the little herb garden we planted off the porch. She was wearing one of my dad’s flannels and a pair of pink Crocs she swore she’d never wear in public. She didn’t knowI was recording. When I showed her later, she smiled—reallysmiled—and said, "Maybe I don’t hate being on camera after all."
It was the first time I posted something that made me cry.
Not because it was sad. Because it wastrue.
My page isn’t about fashion trends or smoothie hacks anymore. It’s about life. Quiet, ordinary, unglamorous life. It’s about Mom learning to live again. About Jasper and Wren building a new chapter down in Houston and video calling us every Sunday with updates on jobs and apartments and the hypothetical names of their hypothetical future children.
It’s about how healing looks more like showing up than moving on.
It’s about love, too.
Brooks is next to me on the porch steps, his leg brushing mine. We just finished dinner—roasted vegetables from the stand down the road, grilled chicken with too much pepper, and a peach pie that collapsed in the oven but still tasted like summer. Mom’s inside folding laundry while her favorite true crime show drones in the background. She still won’t drive on the highway, but she’ll go to the farmer’s market alone now. That’s progress.
I lean into Brooks, resting my head on his shoulder.
“I got the email today," I say softly.
He glances down at me, his expression hard to read in the soft gold of the porch light. "Yeah?"
I nod. "They offered me a book deal."
The words still don’t feel real in my mouth. A year ago I was posting lip gloss reels and pretending that was purpose. Now, someone wants me to write what actually happened.
His smile is slow but wide. "Ellie. That’s amazing."
"It’s not a huge advance or anything, but… they want a collection of essays. About grief, healing, love. About coming home."
He leans in and kisses my temple. "So, basically your life?"
"Basically."
The porch creaks beneath us. Somewhere in the trees, a chorus of cicadas sings its summer song. Fireflies dance at the edges of the yard, blinking in and out like forgotten stars.
"I was thinking of calling itTrending Hearts," I say.
Brooks lets out a soft laugh. "It fits."
"It feels like everything’s trending, you know? What we eat. What we wear. What we buy. But maybe it’s time we talk about where our hearts are trending. What we care about. What we’re choosing."
He squeezes my hand. "What’s yours choosing?"
I look up at him. "You."
His expression softens in that way that always gets me. The quiet awe, the slow melting of all those defenses he thinks he still needs to hold.
"Well," he says, "I hope mine’s choosing you back. Otherwise, we’re on two very awkward trajectories."
I laugh, full and free. And I don’t justfeellike I’m home, Iamhome.
Brooks took that job he kept talking about last fall. Nothing flashy, just a local construction company that builds sustainable housing in small towns. He loves it. He wears a hard hat and argues about insulation like it’s a religion. Sometimes, I record him without his knowing, bent over blueprints or walking a site with dirt on his boots. Those clips always get a ridiculous number of views.
People love him. Of course they do.
He’s the kind of man who fixes squeaky porch steps without being asked. Who checks on your mom when you’re too tired to get out of bed. Who never says "I told you so," even when he absolutely could.
