Fangirl

Chapter 25

AMY

I’ve been a hypocrite.

The realization settled somewhere between LAX and my third breakdown over the Atlantic, curled up in the privacy of a first-class pod that felt far too roomy for how small and hollow I felt.

I kept telling myself I did the right thing, walking away before love became regret, but the truth is murkier than that. I told Jake he needed to figure out who he really was. That he couldn’t keep blending the role and the man. But maybe… I do that too.

Most of what I do is born out of fear—fear of the future, of the unknown, of being a burden. I don’t take risks, not really. Not until Jake. And even then, I jumped only because he made it feel safe. But the second things started to wobble, I ran. Again.

And now? I miss him so much it aches in places I didn’t know could hurt.

The day I got back, the pain flared. My joints locked. My body collapsed in on itself, a dying star. The GP gave me a two-week medical leave, and for once, I actually took it. I didn’t pretend I could push through. I didn’t throw myself back into routine.

Instead, I stayed home. I sulked. I cried. I slept and iced my feet, wrapped in the hoodie I stole from Jake.

But I also finished Backstage Heart. My novel. The one about the chronically ill lawyer and the rock star lying low in her sleepy town. I wrote the last chapter between ice packs and painkillers, with a blanket over my legs and a fresh wave of determination in my chest.

Maybe Jake needs to figure out who he is, but so do I. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll both find our way back… whole.

That’s why I’m standing in front of my manager’s office now, on my first day back at work, palms sweaty and heart pounding. An envelope is clutched in one shaking hand.

“Penis,” I whisper under my breath for courage, raising my knuckles to knock.

Mr. Peters looks up from behind his desk, beaming. “Amy! You’re back. Thank God. We missed you.”

“I, yes.” I step in, my nerves fluttering. For a moment, I falter, the envelope trembling in my grip.

This is ridiculous. Amelia Sinclair, don’t do it. Just go back to your desk, answer some emails, and pretend this was a fever dream.

I start to turn.

Penis.

I pivot back, lifting my chin.

“Actually,” I say, walking to his desk, “I came to give you this.”

I slide the envelope onto the wood between us.

“My resignation. Four weeks’ notice. Effective immediately.”

Mr. Peters blinks, reaching for the envelope like it might bite. “Amy—no. You can’t leave. Did you get another job? I’m sure we can match the salary.”

And just like that, the anger comes, not at him, but at myself. For all the years I stayed quiet and stayed small. Kept my concerns to myself like a good girl in a decent-paying job, too afraid to ask for more. To want more.

Always make the safe choice, Amelia. Do what’s reasonable. Do what’s expected.

“No,” I say firmly. “I didn’t get another job. And I’m not looking for one either. My decision’s made.”

He studies me for a moment, something like disappointment or maybe disbelief shadowing his features.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He nods slowly. “Alright, but I’d appreciate it if you kept this quiet for now.”

The rest of the day drags. Everything feels strange now that I know it’s the end, a surreal calm beneath the nerves, like I’m watching myself from the outside.

And I know the photos from the LA premiere made it into the office. I can tell by the way Jolene keeps sneaking glances at me, wide-eyed and giddy, like she’s caught wind of something scandalous and doesn’t know how to sit on it.

She thinks she knows the story. But she doesn’t know a damn thing.

And part of me, stubborn, hopeful, and foolish, still believes the story isn’t finished yet.

That somewhere between the cracks and the silence, there’s still space for a happy ending. Like in Backstage Heart.

Like the ones I write when I’m brave enough to believe they’re possible.

I’m almost out the door when Jolene corners me by the coat rack, her faux-casual smile stretched just a little too wide.

“So…” she drawls, sweet as poison. “LA looked… interesting.”

I blink. “What?”

She lifts her phone. Of course she does. A Getty Images watermark catches the light.

It’s us—Jake and me. The premiere. The red dress. The heels. His hand at the small of my back.

“Didn’t peg you for a Hollywood type,” she adds, all fake charm and sharp eyes. “Guess the quiet ones always surprise you.”

I force a smile. “Guess so.”

And that’s it. I slip on my coat and walk away before she can ask more questions. Before I say something I’ll regret.

But inside, I laugh, quiet and bitter.

You have no idea, Jolene. Not about me. Not about him.

Not about what I had… or what I left behind.

I’ve been avoiding Maya, too, for a dozen reasons.

Because I don’t want to see the worry in her eyes or hear her call me out for running scared.

Because she knows me too well. Because I am scared, and I need to walk through that fear on my own this time, not pulled forward by someone else’s certainty, even hers.

I told Jake he needed to figure out who he really was.

But the truth? So do I.

Maybe that’s why we loved each other so hard. Two people who didn’t know how to be whole yet.

That plan doesn’t last long.

I’ve barely stepped inside my flat, Pea already fed and flopped in his usual spot, when the door opens behind me.

I turn, my heart already sinking. “You know the key is only for emergencies—”

“You quit?” Maya blurts, her arms crossed and eyes blazing. “You actually quit?”

Busted spectacularly.

I sigh, suddenly even more exhausted. “Not now, Maya. I’m not in the mood.”

“What happened in LA?” she presses, stepping closer, grabbing my hand tight in hers. “You came back grieving something. I didn’t want to pry, but this? This isn’t you.”

I pull my hand free, my voice sharp before I can stop it. “Maybe it is me. You’ve always been so bold, so sure. You don’t see how hard it is for me to breathe sometimes.”

Her eyes soften, but I don’t stop.

“I’m turning thirty in two days, Maya. Thirty.

And what do I have to show for it? A mediocre job, a quiet life, and a laundry list of all the risks I never took.

I keep waiting for the universe to give me something when I’ve never really tried to take anything for myself. I’ve been so scared to want things.”

My voice quivers. I shake my head.

“I just—I needed to do something. For me. Not for safety. Not for logic. Not because it’s the reasonable choice.”

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just waits quietly.

“I know it’s not even that big of a risk,” I admit, exhaling. “I could find another job in a week if I needed to. I’ve got good savings. Nana’s inheritance is still untouched. If I’m careful, I could live for two years without working.”

A slow smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. “And I found an agent.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait—what?”

“I signed with an agent,” I repeat, steadier now. “A real one. For Backstage Heart.”

Maya squeals, launching herself at me, nearly knocking me backward. “OH MY GOD, Amy. This is amazing. You’re doing it. You’re really doing it!”

For the first time in days, I let myself smile, truly smile. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Maya bounces once on her toes, her eyes bright. “Can I read it?”

“Oh no,” I say quickly, taking a step back like her request might physically burn me.

She recoils, mock-offended. “Rude.”

I soften. “I’ll let you read it… eventually. But not yet.”

“Why not?”

I exhale slowly, trying to find the words. “Because I want to wait for my agent to sell it. For the edits. For the version that feels a little less like my open wound.”

Maya tilts her head.

“The thing is…” I chew the inside of my cheek. “It’s not just a book. It’s basically a manifestation. A diary entry disguised as fiction. It’s my story. Jake’s and my story, written out in metaphors and fake names and places that don’t exist—but every line feels too close to the truth.”

Her expression softens with quiet realization.

“It helped me to write it. It was therapy. But the ending…” My voice trails off. I shake my head. “I’m not ready for someone who knows me to read that ending. Not yet.”

She steps forward and wraps her arms around me. “Okay. I get it. When you are ready—I’ll be here. Always.”

I squeeze her tight, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Because one day, I’ll have to let it all go. But for now? This is mine.

Thirty comes quietly.

I spend the day curled up on my sofa with a bottle of chilled chardonnay and a store-bought Victoria sponge cake. Tonight, I’ll go out with Maya and a few of the girls from book club. But right now, being here—soft clothes, warm blanket, cake fork in hand—feels right. Feels like me.

I told my family I couldn’t make it for the weekend. I couldn’t deal with the thinly veiled pity, the well-meaning jabs, the “poor Amy” whispers passed between relatives like napkins. I’ll get enough of that at Steve’s wedding in a couple of weeks—I don’t need the encore.

Still, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting, just a little, that I haven’t heard from Jake.

Not a call. Not a text.

And I can’t even be mad.

The truth is, no matter how much time has passed since I left… I still see it. That look on his face. The way it broke him. The way I broke him.

And the worst part? This time, it wasn’t his fault. Not really.

This one was on me.

It’s late in the afternoon when I hear a knock at the door.

I roll my eyes, already picturing Maya with her hands on her hips, ready to drag me out for my birthday drinks, convinced I’ll bail.

She’s not wrong. I’m cocooned, soft and warm in my solitude, and the idea of heels and bar music makes me want to crawl back under my blanket.

I pad to the door, expecting a lecture.

But it’s not Maya.

It’s a man I don’t recognize, holding what can only be described as a masterpiece disguised as a bouquet—a dome of delicate, luminous blue petals so vivid they hardly seem real.

Blue Himalayan poppies.

Not dyed. Not silk. Real.

He checks his clipboard and asks me to sign. I do—barely registering the pen in my hand. My whole focus is on the flowers.

Because they’re mine.

He remembered.

Not in the “my childhood garden” kind of way. No, they became my favorite because of Persefia.

In the first book, when Anlon found Celandine bleeding in the ruins of Vaelmoor, he placed a single glowing flower beside her heart. A rare bloom called the Liraithan blossom.

A fragile, powerful thing said to only grow in grief-soaked soil. I read that scene a dozen times. A hundred.

And during one Q&A, Melinda admitted she based the Liraithan on the Blue Himalayan poppy. Said she saw it once in a botanical garden in Edinburgh and never forgot it.

Neither did I.

I bring the bouquet inside like it’s made of glass, setting it gently on the kitchen table.

The wrapping is elegant but minimal. No ribbon. No logo.

Just a single ivory envelope tucked between the stems.

No name. No branding. But I already know.

I open it.

And the second I read the words, my knees nearly give out.

Love like ours doesn’t die on the battlefield. It retreats, heals, and returns stronger.

My hand flies to my mouth.

It’s not just the flowers. Not just the quote.

It’s him. It’s Jake.

And I start crying, not the gasping, heaving kind. The quiet sort. The kind that slips out like relief.

Because maybe we’re broken… but not beyond repair.

Maybe this is his way of saying he’s coming back.

Not as Eli. Not as Jake Hollander.

But as himself… to fight for us.

I press the note to my heart. Maybe thirty isn’t the end of something. Maybe it’s the beginning.