Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Awoman walks into a morning she thinks she can’t hold and finds it holds her back. She has learned to be small, so no one calls her loud. She has learned to leave before anyone can leave her.
Today she stands still. Today she says her name to herself first. Today she decides the truth is not an apology but a map.
There is a man who doesn’t fix things; he clears a space. He looks like a question she’s allowed to answer slowly. He does not ask her to be easy. He asks her to be real.
She will tell the people who matter before the people who watch. She will choose her time. She will choose her words. She will choose herself, even when her hands shake.
“Letting Go,” by Lilah Rayne
The window in my apartment is cracked open. I sit cross-legged in the chair, the cursor blinking on a blank document like it’s waiting for permission to begin. It isn’t stage fright. It’s reverence, like standing at the edge of something sacred.
I click into my scheduled posts. The template Marley helped me design is already there, clean, simple, understated.
My brand colours, a soft photo of my hands holding The Year Before You, and beneath the title, my real name finally.
I let out a breath and slowly begin to type out a post that is me stepping into my name.
Coming clean.
My chest feels tight, but not in a painful way, more like something bound has finally come undone. I save the post without sharing it yet, scheduling it for the next morning. Closing the laptop, I lean back in my chair and let the silence hold me.
I cross the room to where my phone sits charging on the bookshelf.
Glancing at it there are no new messages. Not from Lucas, not from my parents. Just stillness. Grabbing my keys and notebook, I take the stairs down to the main street and head straight for the forest.
The light is thinning and the path slightly damp. I don’t go all the way to the wishing tree; I turn off early and slip into the clearing tucked behind the old fence post. It’s close enough to feel like the tree is listening and far enough to be alone.
Forgetting my picnic blanket means I sit on a stone, balancing the notebook on my knees. The words come fast as I start to write.
Dear Justin,
I am writing this for me, not for you.
There was a time when I would have opened with an apology. I used to start with sorry. For the silence, for leaving, for not folding myself small enough to fit the version of me you preferred. No more apologies for breathing.
I had to lose you to love me. Not the polished kind of love that looks good in photos. The ordinary kind that lets me take up space, that lets me laugh loud, that doesn’t need a new name to be allowed in the room.
You told me I was too much and somehow not enough, often in the same week. I learned to make myself quiet and called it care. It was shrinking. I’m done shrinking.
You don’t get to hold my story anymore. I’m telling it myself. I’m not a secret. I won’t be blackmailed. If my name is spoken, it will be because I chose it.
There were good mornings with coffee that didn’t go cold, a joke that landed, a song in the car we both pretended not to love. I can hold those without holding you.
I’m choosing the version of me that keeps the lights on. She puts her real name on pages. She buys good ice cream and opens the window on Friday nights. She says no, and it still sounds like love. She doesn’t need you to agree to exist.
We may have loved each other in a way that made sense then. Loving you taught me what love isn’t: not a test, not a hush, not a hand on my shoulder steering me away from myself.
If you ever think of me, let it be this: a girl standing under a tree full of wishes,
holding her own pen, already on the next page.
Lilah
Feeling lighter, freer, I tear the page from my journal and fold it up. I stay seated until the sun dips behind the last cloud in the sky. When I stand, the folded page slips from my notebook and catches in the grass at the edge of the roots.
Sunday morning light warms the kitchen table, where croissants, jam, and half-drunk coffees surround us.
Still in my oversized tee, hair tousled with sleep, I hadn't planned to have company, but Marley had arrived unannounced with pastries.
Rey had followed with iced coffees and a smirk, and Tess, predictably, arrived last. Full of flair and an unspoken plan.
‘So,’ Tess says, slicing into her pastry with precision, ‘you’re really doing it? The post. The big reveal?’
I nod, brushing crumbs from my lap. ‘It’s scheduled. Goes live today at 10 a.m.’
Rey lets out a soft “oof.” Marley grins, and Tess freezes mid-bite.
‘You know what we should do?’ Tess lights up. ‘A launch. Or a reveal event. At Inkwell & Ivy. Make it a thing.’
I blink. ‘Like invite people?’
‘Yes. Like a reading, or a Q&A. Meet the author. Meet you.’ Tess drums her fingers on the table. ‘It doesn’t have to be huge, just show who you really are. It’s time, Lils.’
‘You’ve been serving coffee and writing in secret for too long,’ Rey adds.
‘And dodging your name like it’s Voldemort,’ Marley quips, passing me more jam.
I laugh softly. The sound caught somewhere between disbelief and fear. ‘I don’t know if I can. What if no one shows up? What if they do and I freeze?’
‘Then we unfreeze you with wine and applause,’ Tess replies smoothly. ‘They’ll come. You’ve built something, Lilah. People love this book, not just for the story, but for the heart in it. It’s time they meet the heart behind it.’
I look around at the women who have held me through heartbreak and healing. My chest tightens with possibility.
I sip my coffee, then nod. ‘Okay.’ My voice is steadier than I expected. ‘Let’s do it.’
Tess beams. ‘I’ll talk to Lucas, he’ll say yes.’
‘Can you give him this gift? I don’t know whether I can once the post is live.’ I hand her a small box. She nods and puts it in her bag.
‘Let’s go downstairs to the market!’ Marley calls out.
I grab my keys and we walk downstairs. I pause at the brick wall, fingers brushing the spot where the night air had held us close.
Where he had kissed me slow, like we had time.
Where we first talked about the ice cream window and all the small, silly futures people dream up when it feels safe to want things.
I hope that it will still be our future.
We spill out into the street together, the hum of the market wrapping around us.
Music from a busker, drifts through the air, mingling with the smell of cinnamon and roasted almonds.
Stalls gleam with flowers and jars of honey that catch the sun.
Marley darts towards a jewellery stand, and Rey makes a beeline for the postcards.
‘Lilah, hey.’ Sadie, I think it is from the pub calls out to me.
‘Hey, how are you?’
‘Good, I just saw your post. About being Lola.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes, made sense after hearing that friend of yours carry on like that at the pub the other night.’
I laugh, ‘Yeah Jasper is a bit…dramatic, you could say.’
‘Yeah, anyway love. Just wanted to say, I love your book. I think you are a great writer, and do you think it would be okay if the girls and I came by and had you sign our books?’
‘Yeah of course, come by the cafe anytime, I would be happy to.’
She claps her hands, ‘Thank you so much, we have a little book club, and we read yours in August when you released it.’
‘Well you are welcome anytime.’
‘Thanks love, proud of you for stepping into the light. Have a good day.’ She turns on her heals and walks away.
‘Worth it, isn’t it,’ Tess says, smiling as she walks to meet up with Marley.
That’s when I see him. Lucas. He’s a few stalls down, looking through a stack of vintage hardcovers, sunlight catching in his hair. His head tilts slightly when he reads a spine, his thumb traces the edges of the cover like he’s committing it to memory.
He looks up and our eyes meet.
He comes to stop on the other side of the table. ‘I saw your post,’ he murmurs. ‘When you’re ready. We can talk.’
‘Okay, thank you.’
‘No rush,’ he adds. ‘Your pace.’
I nod. My hands stop shaking.
He gives the smallest smile. ‘I’ll text you when I’m done here?’ He steps back, and walks on, refusing to be the first to look away.
The noise of the market swells, bright and too loud, filling the hollow he’s left behind. Marley loops her arm through mine, tugging me towards the next row of stalls. ‘Come on, before Rey buys every postcard here.’
I let her pull me along, but my gaze snags on the space where he’d stood. Still half expecting him to be there, waiting.
Marley and Rey drift ahead, while Tess lingers behind me, mid-call. The morning warmth brushes my shoulders as I pause at a table of second-hand books.
‘Lilah.’
My name snaps behind me like a whip. I turn—Justin stands too close—swaying just slightly, eyes bloodshot but sharp. Not sloppy drunk. Mean drunk. Calculating drunk. A cold ripple washes through me.
‘Oh,’ his words slurring but targeted, ‘look who’s finally proud of her little name.’
‘Justin.’ I manage to say, ‘not here.’
‘No, here is perfect.’ He steps closer, forcing me back against the table. ‘You post your big “truth” online with your real name and think I won’t see it?’
My stomach turns. ‘You need to go home.’
He scoffs. ‘Home? You mean to the life you fucked up? No. I’m here because you owe me.’ His voice lowers, venomous, ‘Where’s my money, Lilah?’
My heart races. ‘I’m not paying you.’
He laughs. ‘Oh, yes you are. Because if I tell them you used me, manipulated me, played victim? I’ll ruin you.’
‘Justin—’
‘You don’t get to rewrite the ending without me,’ he snaps. ‘I built Lola. I carried your cowardice. And now you’re out here playing brave?’ He leans in, breath sharp with whiskey. ‘You want your precious new life? Pay for it.’
My pulse kicks hard.
His eyes flick over my shoulder—and darken. ‘Him,’ Justin spits. ‘Of course. The bloody bookstore boy.’
Lucas.