It doesn't feel official yet, like saying it out loud will make it real. But it's already settled somewhere deep inside me. I can't ask Jasper to carry this alone. I can't keep leaning on Brooks like he's some permanent backup plan.
These people—flawed, complicated, exhausting—are my family. They're the only one I've got. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe I'm right where I need to be.
"Do you mind if I say something?" Belle asks gently, her voice unusually tentative.
"Sure," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"I know you're going through a lot right now, Elowen, but you seem… better."
"Better?" I repeat, nearly choking on the word like it doesn't belong to me.
"More relaxed, maybe," Belle clarifies. "LA never felt like it fit you. But wherever you are now? You look lighter. Happier, even."
"Thank you," I reply softly, not entirely sure how to take the compliment.
Happier? I don't know if that's true. But thereissomething different about being home. It's not easy. It's messy, emotional, and sometimes suffocating. But here, I'm not performing. I'm not crafting captions or chasing the next trend. I'm just... me. Tired, overwhelmed, a little raw, but me, nonetheless.
I'm known here. Not just by my family, but by the rustling trees and the heavy, humid air. By the faded porch swing and the scent of Mom's chocolate chip cookies.
By Brooks.
Maybe it's not happiness I'm feeling. Maybe it's the absence of pretending.
"Well, I better get started on editing," Belle says, pulling me back to the screen. "I'll be in touch soon."
"Sounds good. Thanks, Belle," I say, then click to end the call.
Silence settles around me. I sit with it, breathing it in.
Life in LA is hard. The grind, the pressure to smile on command, to sparkle even when I feel dim. But life here? It's hard, too, just in different ways. It's learning to carry other people's burdens. It's showing up when I want to disappear. It's giving pieces of myself even when I’m running on empty.
Life is hard. No matter where I go, it will always be hard.
Maybe it's not about choosing the easier path, just the one that feels mostright. And right now? I don't know what that path is.
But I'm starting to think I'll only figure it out by standing still long enough to listen for the answer.
"Elowen?" Mom's voice drifts in from behind me, tentative, like she's unsure if she's allowed to interrupt whatever world I've been living in lately.
I swivel my chair to face her. "Yeah?"
"I just made snickerdoodles," she says, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "I know they're your favorite."
It’s the same recipe she’s used since I was eight, the one she used to burn on purpose just so Dad could scrape off the edges and make me laugh.
A lump forms in my throat, but I stand anyway. "I'd love some."
We settle into our usual seats at the kitchen table. Two cookies on a napkin in front of each of us. No coffee. No milk. Just the stillness between us, and the weight of everything we're too afraid to say.
I take a bite, the cinnamon-sugar crumble grounding me in a strange kind of comfort. We chew in silence.
No mention of Dad. No mention of her not going to the hospital. No mention of how we're barely holding things together in a house filled with so much history and so many ghosts.
We just sit there, pretending this is fine.
"I should get going," I say after a moment. "I'm taking over for Jasper tonight at the hospital."
Mom nods and wipes a crumb off her lap. "Oh. Okay."
