CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Who Am I?
I just… can’t.
I don’t have the energy to pretend I care. Not even for my manager.
It’s been three weeks since the funeral, and just getting out of my cold, echoing apartment took everything I had.
I didn’t brush my hair. Just tied it up, threw on sunglasses, and walked to the café down the street because sitting alone in my kitchen felt too loud.
Now I’m here, staring blankly at my laptop, feeling like a stranger in my own life. Like I slipped back into a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.
Even the air feels different here—filtered, perfumed, artificial. Nothing smells like pine or sawdust or rain on gravel anymore.
"Elowen!"
I hear my name and resist the urge to duck.
I glance up and spot them. Sierra Darling, beauty mogul with a surgically perfected smile, and Lyla Monroe, wellness queen with a net worth built on green juice and guilt.
They’re draped in shopping bags, glowing from some influencer event or sponsored spree. And suddenly, I can’t tell if I envy them or pity them.
Sierra slides into the seat across from me while Lyla leans against the table, posing like the cameras never stop.
"We heard about your dad," Sierra says, her voice sticky-sweet. She reaches out and pats my hand. "So sorry, love."
Love? We’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances. We’re mutually beneficial brand alignments.
"Thanks," I say as I cross my arms.
"But," Lyla cuts in, "we saw the collab with Big Belle."
There it is. The real reason they came over.
"It’s just Belle," I correct, coolly.
"Right." Sierra waves a manicured hand. "Anyway, we just… hope this isn’t the new direction for your platform. You know?"
I blink slowly. "No. I don’t know. Please. Enlighten me."
Another shared look. Lyla leans in like she’s about to share a secret.
"We’re aspirational, Elowen. She’s… not," Lyla says, tone low.
Something snaps. Not loud, not visible. Just the quiet kind of break that rearranges me from the inside out.
I look at them. Really look. The tan. The teeth. The perfect, plastic versions of themselves they’ve molded their souls into. And I feel sick.
"My dad died," I say softly.
Sierra’s brows raise, caught off guard. "Right, and we—"
"No," I interrupt. "You don’t get it. I sat in a waiting room while I listened to my mom sob down the hall.
I cleaned out the room he built his whole life around.
I watched my family break. And the whole time, I wondered what the hell I was doing here, posting hair tutorials and pretending I had anything to say that mattered. "
They’re quiet now. Uncomfortable.
Good.
"You want to know what direction I’m going?" I ask, standing and gathering my things. "It’s the one where I stop pretending this—any of this—is who I am."
I tuck my laptop under my arm, sling my bag over my shoulder, and give them one last look. "Belle’s more real than either of you will ever be. And frankly? I’m honored to stand beside her."
Then, I leave. And I don’t look back.
Anger—hot and sharp—flares beneath my skin as I walk briskly back to my cold, damp apartment. Grief hums right behind it, steady and low like background static I can’t shut off.
Sierra and Lyla, with their curated smiles and empty words, are everything I no longer want. Everything I might have been.
For years, I chased what they had. The perfect feed. The endless validation. But now all I can see is the emptiness behind it.
I slam the door behind me and the silence swallows me whole. Not peaceful. Hollow.
I sink into the couch, eyes burning, stomach tight. I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t pretend that swiping on eyeshadow, sipping overpriced martinis, and smiling for photos on rooftop parties with strangers pretending to be friends is enough.
It’s not.
Dad is dead.
And me? I close my eyes, press a trembling hand to my chest, and I see him.
Brooks.
Steady, infuriating, warm-hearted Brooks. I fell in love with him somewhere between the chaos and the quiet, between guilt and grace, grief and healing.
And now? I’m here.
He’s there.
Still holding everything together. For Mom. For Jasper. For me.
And I left him.
I left them.
Because I couldn’t breathe in that house anymore. Because I didn’t know how to sit with the silence and not unravel. Because loving Brooks meant staying still, and staying still terrifies me.
But this silence? The silence here?
It’s worse.
When the anger fades, all that’s left is grief, and this ache for something that feels real again.
So, I do what I always do.
I run.
But I don’t want to be this person anymore. The girl who pretends. Who smiles for the camera when she’s quietly breaking. Who sells an image she doesn’t even recognize anymore.
None of it matters. Maybe it never did.
Frustrated tears prick at my eyes as I swipe at them with the back of my hand. The kitchen is dim, the only light coming from a weak shaft of sun filtering through the blinds. Dust floats in the air. A dead plant slumps in the middle of the table. That feels about right.
I grab my phone, prop it against the pot, and sit down across from it. I breathe through my nose and try to find something steady inside me.
Be real, Elowen. Be honest. Be brave.
My hands are shaking so badly the phone almost slips.
I hit record. No smile. No filter. I slide the sunglasses off my head and set them aside. Then I just... speak.
"I lost someone I love recently," I say, my voice raspy, raw. "I know a lot of you have probably been wondering where I’ve been. Why I haven’t been posting.
Why things feel different." I pause, gathering the words from somewhere deeper than usual. "The truth is… it’s hard to pretend everything’s okay when my world has literally tilted off its axis. "
I glance at the screen. I look tired. Pale. Real.
"Some of you think I owe you an explanation. Maybe I do. I’ve spent the last few years showing you what you think is my life—the outfits, the skincare routines, the perfect lighting. But none of that is real. It’s edited. Curated. Filtered."
I gesture around the small, lifeless apartment. "This is the truth. This space. These feelings. Me." I swallow, hard. "And I’m sorry. I sold you a lie. I should have given you more than smoke and mirrors. You deserved someone who was real with you. Honest. And I wasn’t."
My eyes sting again. I blink fast, trying not to fall apart. Not fully.
"The internet says it wants authenticity, but only if it’s palatable.
Pretty. But I’m not pretty right now. I’m grieving.
I’m unraveling a little more each day. But I’m trying.
" My voice breaks a little. "And if you still want to be here—to see the real me, not the illusion—I’d love to figure this next chapter out with you. "
I end the video.
No edits. No music. No filter.
Just me.
And I hit post.
I don’t bother checking the views or comments or likes. I just… don’t care. Not like I used to.
Sierra and Lyla can keep chasing validation through ring lights and shopping hauls. What I miss is something real.
I miss Brooks. I miss Jasper. I miss being known—and accepted—for who I am, without all the editing.
I crawl into bed and open Brooks’ Lumberjack Hottie account on my phone.
I scroll through the videos. Not for the shirtless thirst traps, though those don’t hurt, but for the way his eyes search the lens, like he’s searching for me.
For the quiet smile he only gives when he forgets the camera is on. The one he used to give me.
I miss that version of myself. I miss him. But I haven’t reached out. And he hasn’t either.
So, I watch him in silence, fingers brushing over the screen, aching for a connection that now feels oceans away.
There are decisions to make. Big ones. Do I stay and try to stitch my life back together here? Or do I go back home and face everything I ran from? What even is home anymore?
I can’t call Mom. She won’t answer. And I can’t call Brooks. Not after the way things ended. I call the only other person left.
It rings once. Twice. Then Jasper picks up.
"Hullo?" His voice is groggy. Or tired. Or both.
"Hey, little brother," I say softly, trying not to cry. "I was just… checking in."
A beat passes. Then another. "Things are the way they’ve always been," he says flatly.
I sit up straighter, chewing on my thumbnail. "Has Mom… I mean, is she doing any better?"
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line. "If you wanted to know how she was, Ellie, maybe you shouldn’t have bailed the second the funeral was over."
His words are a slap.
"That’s not fair. I needed time to grieve, too."
Jasper scoffs. "Right. From a thousand miles away. In your trendy little apartment. Must be nice."
"Jasp, I didn’t mean—"
"No, you never do," he cuts me off. "But you always leave. And you always call later, acting like you didn’t."
"I miss you," I whisper, but it’s too quiet. Too late.
"I’ve got stuff to do," he mutters. "You made your choice." The words land like a verdict. And the worst part? He’s not wrong. "I just don’t know how to forgive it."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone like it might light up again. It doesn’t.
So I do the only thing I can do: I bury my face in my pillow and cry. Not because I called too late. But because I might have called too many times, always after I’ve already gone.
I cry until my phone rings, a sound I haven’t heard in days. It startles me.
I wipe my eyes and squint at the blurry screen. Belle.
I answer, my voice barely steady. "Hi."
"Oh, Elowen." Belle’s soft Southern drawl wraps around me like a warm quilt. "I was just calling to see how you were holding up, honey."
"Not good," I admit, the words cracking open something raw in my chest. "Really… not good."
"You want to talk about it?" she asks gently.
I nod before remembering she can’t see me. "My life… it’s just—" I break off, unable to finish. How do you explain to someone that your life has come undone?
"I lost my Daddy too," she says, soft as a lullaby. "It doesn’t stop hurting. But one day, you learn to breathe through it."
Tears fall again, but this time slower. Softer. "Th-thanks," I whisper.
"I saw the video you posted," Belle says, her tone steady and kind. "Took a lot of courage. That kind of honesty? It matters. It means something."
I swallow hard. "I don’t know what to do, Belle."
"You don’t have to know today," she says. "But you will. I believe that, and I believe in you."
Her words strike something deep. Something that feels a little like hope and a little like grief learning how to breathe.
"I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay," I murmur.
"You don’t have to be," she replies. "Just be real. That’s enough."
Maybe healing doesn’t start with forgiveness.
Maybe it starts with someone believing you can.