Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Achipped mug of Earl Grey cools between my palms. I haven't turned on any music, and I haven't opened my phone. I didn’t know what I expected after telling Lucas. Tears? Regret? A spiral of overthinking that curled around my ribs?
Instead, I woke up feeling steady. Tired, yes, and still scared, but something had shifted. The knot in my chest isn’t gone, but it has loosened.
He texted me last night. I wasn't ready to reply yet, so I locked my phone and set it face down on the table.
I set the mug beside me and open my laptop, fingers hovering for a beat longer than usual. I open a document. Letting Go by Lilah Rayne.
My name looks strange in the byline. Not because it didn’t fit, but because I haven't let it belong there before. I didn’t know exactly what I was writing, not yet, but the words came anyway.
Slower than they used to be, more deliberate, like my voice is learning to walk again after too long hidden behind someone else’s.
Paragraph by paragraph, something bloomed. It isn’t a sequel. It isn’t even a plot yet. It is a feeling, a second story, rising from the wreckage of the first.
By the time I look at the clock, it is past noon. My tea is cold, and my fingers ache. But my chest? My chest feels calm, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I am writing to escape, I am writing to arrive.
I save the document, close the laptop lid, and stretch my arms overhead, neck rolling side to side until something cracks with relief. Out of habit, I check my phone. One new email.
Subject: Re: Submission “The Versions We Survive”
My heart stops. It is from the editor of the small online literary journal I’d submitted to under my real name. No pen name, and no bio, just raw pages, and a simple note, “I’ve never submitted anything as myself before. This is what I’ve been too scared to say.”
I tap it open, breath catching in my throat.
Dear Lilah,
I just finished reading your piece and wanted to reach out personally. I don’t
know your story, but I know this, your voice is honest and necessary. The way
you wrote about silence, about shrinking, about writing as survival; it moved
me, and our entire team.
We’d love to feature your piece in our next issue. We’re calling the collection
“Unmasked.” If you’re open to it, we’d also love to share a short author note.
No pressure.
Thank you for trusting us with it.
Warmly,
Karen Jacobs
Editor, Quiet Voices Journal
I stare at the screen. My fingers hover, unsure what to do with the flood of emotion rising behind my ribs.
They’d seen me. Not Lola, not some version of myself wrapped in clever prose or curated bio snippets.
Me. I press a hand to my chest and let it sit there, anchoring me.
Without thinking too hard, I start typing.
Thank you.
That is the first thing I’ve ever written with my real name at the top. I’m still
figuring out what it means to be seen and to be okay with being seen, but I’d
be honoured to be included.
Lilah Rayne
I hit send. The reply had barely left my outbox when my phone lit up. I hesitate to answer. ‘Hey.’
‘Okay, don’t panic,’ Tess says immediately. ‘But you’re kind of blowing up.’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘I was scrolling between meetings, and saw your story, the one you submitted. Someone screenshotted it. They’re sharing quotes on BookTok. Like, a lot of them.’
My stomach flipped. ‘How?’
‘No idea,’ Tess breathes. ‘I think someone on the journal’s review team leaked it early.
Or maybe they posted a preview? But it’s everywhere.
People are calling it. “The most honest thing they’ve read this year.
’’ One comment said. “It feels like being cracked open and stitched back up in the same sentence.”’
I stood from the couch, pacing. ‘Oh my god. Are they using my name?’
‘They are,’ Tess confirms. ‘Your real name, Lilah. Not Lola. Just you.’ Tess adds, ‘And people are resonating with it. There are threads already where people are saying they’ve never seen someone describe the quiet kind of pain so clearly.
That part you wrote about loving someone while slowly losing yourself? It’s hitting hard.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready for this.’
‘Babe. You already did the scariest part. You told the truth. This? This is just people finally seeing it.’
‘I didn’t think anyone was going to read it.’
‘Well, they are, and you should see the DMs. People are sharing it with their friends, tagging each other in comments like, “This is us.”’
I lean against the windowsill, eyes on the tree outside. A soft breeze moves the branches like they’re waving back.
‘I think I’m in shock.’
‘Yeah,’ Tess says. ‘That tracks. You’re not alone in this, okay? Whatever happens next, we’ve got you.’
I give a watery smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘Also,’ Tess teases, ‘remind me never to piss off the girl who writes like that. You’ve got people weeping in their cars.’
I laugh, ‘Noted.’
Tess’s call leaves me sitting in the middle of the floor, the phone loose in my hand, heart thudding somewhere between panic and disbelief.
Buzz online. People are talking about me, not Lola.
Me, Lilah Rayne, quiet girl above the café.
Lover of too-hot coffee, slow mornings, and stories that hurt a little before they heal.
I sit with my knees pulled to my chest, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar stretch of being seen and not crumbling.
The mug I abandoned earlier is still warm enough. I take a sip and let it settle in my chest like a question with no clear answer. It feels irreversible, and yet something inside me shifts, not like a click, but a gentle easing. A letting go.
LILAH: I’m glad you read it. Are you okay?
I wait a few minutes. Nothing comes. I rise slowly, padding across the floor and placing my phone face-down on the windowsill.
I open the window just enough to let in the mountain breeze.
It smells like eucalyptus and baked bread from downstairs.
As I lean against the frame and take a deep breath in, there’s a knock at the door.
‘Lils?’ Rey’s voice calls softly through the timber. ‘It’s me.’
I pad over and open it. Rey stands there in her Brew & Bloom apron, curls pinned up and her signature eyeliner on point.
Coffee in one hand, a bag from Sweet Fern Pantry in the other.
‘I thought you might need more than pastries today,’ she says, holding them up.
‘Bacon and waffles sound kinda off, but they promised it’s delicious. ’
I step aside to let her in. ‘Thanks. I think I forgot to eat.’
Rey walks to the kitchen bench and hands me the bacon waffle combo. ‘Figured. Tess messaged me and said your phone’s probably overheating from notifications.’
I lean against the counter and tear off a piece bacon. ‘Apparently, my emotional unravelling is trending.’
Rey gives me a soft look. ‘I read it.’
I don’t answer right away. I just look down, cutting the waffles into smaller pieces.
‘It’s you,’ she adds quietly. ‘And it’s beautiful.’
‘You read the whole thing?’
Rey nods. ‘The journal posted a preview link on their socials this morning. Your name’s right there at the top. I didn’t even have to open it to know.’
My throat tightens. ‘I thought I’d feel more ready.’
‘You don’t have to be.’ She gently nudges my shoulder.
‘But just so you know? The way you wrote about longing, and loneliness, and trying to be brave when you still feel made of glass? It’s raw, but it’s you.
Completely. And it mattered.’ I press my lips together, swallowing the lump in my throat.
‘That story didn’t just hit me,’ Rey adds.
‘It stayed with me, and I think that’s how you know it’s real. ’
I blink back sudden tears. ‘It’s terrifying.’
Rey nods. ‘Yeah. But also kind of freeing?’
I give a small shrug, eyes on my plate. ‘Lucas hasn’t replied.’
‘He will,’ she states, leaning in with her elbow on the counter. ‘He just needs a minute to catch up. You’ve been living with this longer than he has.’
I nod slowly. ‘I know. I’m trying not to rush it. I’m just trying to sit in it.’
Rey smiles, all warmth and sincerity. ‘That’s growth, babe. It’s uncomfortable, messy, deeply unsexy growth. I’m proud of you.’
She checks her watch, then reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘Fuck that guy,’ she grins. ‘I’ve gotta head back, but I see you, Lilah. In every word of that story. And I’m so damn proud you for finally letting the world see you too.’
She leaves with a lingering hug and a promise to bring cake if things get overwhelming. I turn back towards my desk.
I’m halfway through the next sentence when my phone buzzes beside me. I reach for it without thinking, thumb unlocking the screen, I freeze.
MUM: We saw your story. We’d really like to talk, if you’re open to it.
A second message follows.
DAD: We’re proud of you, Lilah. Truly. Please call us when you’re ready.
My heart thuds, weightless in a strange way that happens when the past collides with the present, too fast to brace for it. I set the phone down gently. Outside, the sky shifts to that dusky gold that makes everything feel like it belongs to a memory.
I slip on my worn sneakers and grab my cardigan from the hook by the door.
I don’t have a destination in mind. I just walk.
Through the quieter streets of Wattlewood Ridge, past the post office mural, and the stone library steps I used to sit on when I first moved here.
My thoughts blur with the rhythm of my feet, the words I’ve written, and that impossible-to-name feeling swelling in my chest.
I turn down a street I rarely take anymore.
It’s more residential, the change in direction somewhere between aimless and instinct.
The cottage on the corner. The one I dream about owning, and the one I built into my book, that fictional place where my character found safety.
The porch light is on, and through the large front window, I see him.
Lucas, bathed in lamplight, hunched over a notebook. My breath catches mid-step. He’s writing, not frantic but focused. His brow furrowed, with a mug beside him, books stacked like armour around him.
He lives here? I hadn’t known, but I guess I never asked. Somehow it hadn’t come up. Now I stand there on the street, exposed, breathless, my heart thudding like he might hear it from across the road.
He doesn’t see me. I stand there for one more breath, then cross the street.
My hand shakes once before I knock, three short taps.
Lucas opens the door, soft lamplight at his back, book in hand. He takes me in, warm coat and flushed cheeks, the way I’m holding myself together.
‘Hey,’ he whispers. ‘You okay?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘But I didn’t want to be alone. Can I… just be here? We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.’
‘I want to,’ he says. ‘Or we can be quiet. Your call.’
I nod. ‘Quiet first.’
He steps back while I toe off my shoes. The room smells like rain and tea. He sets his book down, grabs a spare mug, fills it, and passes it to me without commentary. My fingers warm around it.
We sit on the couch, not touching but our knees close. The clock ticks. My breathing evens out.
After a minute, I say, ‘I was scared you’d think I lied to you.’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t.’
‘I didn’t want you to have to carry it.’
‘I can carry you being here,’ he tells me. ‘The rest we can work out when you’re ready.’
My throat tightens. I take a sip and let it settle. ‘Thank you.’
He nods like it’s simple. ‘Do you want noise? Music?’
‘No. This is good.’
I fish a bent sticky note from my pocket, the one I left at the shop weeks ago about second chances and set it on the table between us.
He sees it and smiles with recognition.
‘Can I stay a while?’
‘As long as you want.’
I lean into his shoulder, and he goes still, then relaxes, careful and solid. The panic eases by degrees. The window hums with the weather, and my hands stop shaking.
‘Tomorrow,’ I close my eyes. ‘We can talk about the rest.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he agrees.
For now, we breathe.