The morning air smelled like dew and earth. Mist hovered over the lake like a ghost unsure of where to settle, and birds chirped quietly in the trees, as if not to disturb the fragile stillness that had fallen over the cottage.
Elena stood on the porch in an old sweater, a mug of herbal tea warming her hands. Her hair was loose, a little tangled, like the thoughts still curling through her mind.
It had been three days since she left the city. Three days of silence, sleep, long walks down the pine-lined trails, and tears that finally came not from confusion, but clarity.
She had given ten years of her life to Jace Carter. Years filled with laughter, heartbreak, loyalty, betrayal. It hadn't all been bad—there were beautiful moments too. Late nights on rooftops, whispered dreams, the first time he touched her like she was fragile, and the thousand times he held her like she was his world.
But love wasn't enough when trust kept dying.
She took a sip of her tea, the steam soft against her lips, and let the quiet sink in.
She had spent so long filling silences—chasing, fixing, forgiving—that she had forgotten how to simply be still. And now that she was, she wasn't sure if it was peace or numbness. But maybe it didn't matter. Maybe healing didn't feel like triumph. Maybe it felt exactly like this: small, quiet survival.
Her phone buzzed gently on the porch rail.
Not Jace.
It was Kara.
> "Just checking in. Still breathing? Need a snack drop?"
Elena smiled for the first time that day. She typed back:
> "Still breathing. No snacks needed. Just space. Thank you ❤️"
She set the phone down and watched the water ripple. Something about the lake made her feel like she could finally exhale. The chaos of her heart didn't feel so loud here. It felt… patient. Like it could wait for her to figure it all out.
The screen door creaked behind her.
"Elena."
She turned.
It was her mother, wrapped in her own robe, her silver-streaked hair tied in a loose bun. She had arrived late the night before, quietly letting herself in, saying nothing more than, "You don't have to talk. Just rest."
And that was all Elena had needed.
"I made toast," her mother said. "With honey. Like when you were little."
Elena's throat tightened. "Thank you."
They sat together on the porch, side by side, in the same chairs that had once held summer stories and scraped knees. Her mother handed her a piece of toast, and Elena took a bite, surprised at how something so simple could still bring comfort.
"You stayed a long time," her mother finally said, gently. "Ten years is no small thing."
Elena nodded slowly. "I didn't want to let go."
"Because you loved him?"
"Yes. But also… because I loved the version of myself who believed in us."
Her mother looked at her, really looked. "Do you still believe in that version of you?"
Elena was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I think I'm trying to find her again."
Her mother reached over, took her hand. "She never left. She's just quieter now. But she's still there."
Tears welled again, not heavy or chaotic, just full. Elena let them fall.
"I thought he was it," she whispered. "I thought we'd grow old together. And now, I don't know where to put all the love I had for him."
"You don't have to rush to put it anywhere," her mother said softly. "Let it be. Love doesn't always disappear. Sometimes it just changes shape."
Elena leaned her head on her mother's shoulder. "I don't want to hate him. I want to move on without bitterness."
"That's the hardest part," her mother said. "But also the bravest."
Later that afternoon, Elena took a walk around the lake.
The trees rustled gently in the wind, and sunlight danced off the water like it didn't know how much pain the world could hold. She walked slowly, letting the gravel crunch under her boots, each step a reminder that she was moving—even if it wasn't toward something yet.
Halfway around the lake, she stopped at the dock.
This had been her favorite place as a child. She used to lie flat on her stomach and stare into the water, convinced the fish could understand her thoughts. She sat there now, legs dangling off the edge, arms wrapped around her knees.
The wind played with her hair.
And then she did something she hadn't done in a long time.
She spoke to herself.
Out loud.
"I forgive you," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "For staying so long. For believing too hard. For not walking away when the signs were clear."
She swallowed.
"I forgive you for loving him even now."
The words didn't fix everything. But they made her feel lighter.
That evening, after a quiet dinner with her mother and another long shower where she let the water scald away what remained of the ache, Elena sat on her bed with her journal.
She wrote one last letter to Jace.
She wouldn't send it. She just needed to write it.
> Jace,
I loved you more than I loved myself, and maybe that was the mistake.
I believed in you when it cost me my peace. I forgave you more times than I admitted. I waited for the man I fell in love with to come back—but I realize now that maybe he was never truly there.
I don't regret our years together. I regret what I lost in myself to keep us going.
I hope you find what you're looking for. I hope you grow. I hope one day, someone looks at you the way I used to—and that you won't take it for granted.
But I'm done waiting.
Goodbye.
Elena
She closed the journal.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't cry.
Instead, she went outside again, barefoot, and stood beneath the stars.
The wind was soft.
The sky was endless.
And somewhere deep inside her, something uncurled—like the first hint of spring after a brutal winter.
Elena wasn't healed, yet
But she was free.