EPILOGUE
One Year Later
The first time I went viral, I was wearing a linen dress and holding a coffee I didn’t even like.
I remember watching the notifications roll in like waves—fast, loud, relentless. Everyone wanted to know what I was wearing, what my skincare routine was, what shade of lipstick I had on. For a while, I thought that kind of attention meant something. That it meant I meant something.
But no one can’t measure the depth of their life by how many people double-tap a curated square on their phones.
It’s been a year since I came home. Since everything unraveled, and then—slowly, stubbornly—stitched itself back together.
We’re not perfect. Not even close. But we’re real. And that’s enough.
Real looks like Mom leaving the house in Dad’s hoodie and yesterday’s mascara and not apologizing for either.
Real looks like Jasper texting me photos of ugly rental kitchens in Houston and asking which one “feels like somewhere we could bring a baby home to.
Hypothetically, calm down." Real looks like Brooks fixing a loose cabinet hinge and kissing my shoulder in the same motion.
I used to think being ‘put together’ was the goal. Now. I think being honest is the goal. I’m a lot messier. But I’m closer to myself than I’ve ever been.
This morning, I filmed Mom humming to herself while she clipped basil from the little herb garden we planted off the porch.
She was wearing one of my dad’s flannels and a pair of pink Crocs she swore she’d never wear in public.
She didn’t know I was recording. When I showed her later, she smiled—really smiled—and said, "Maybe I don’t hate being on camera after all. "
It was the first time I posted something that made me cry.
Not because it was sad. Because it was true.
My page isn’t about fashion trends or smoothie hacks anymore.
It’s about life. Quiet, ordinary, unglamorous life.
It’s about Mom learning to live again. About Jasper and Wren building a new chapter down in Houston and video calling us every Sunday with updates on jobs and apartments and the hypothetical names of their hypothetical future children.
It’s about how healing looks more like showing up than moving on.
It’s about love, too.
Brooks is next to me on the porch steps, his leg brushing mine.
We just finished dinner—roasted vegetables from the stand down the road, grilled chicken with too much pepper, and a peach pie that collapsed in the oven but still tasted like summer.
Mom’s inside folding laundry while her favorite true crime show drones in the background.
She still won’t drive on the highway, but she’ll go to the farmer’s market alone now. That’s progress.
I lean into Brooks, resting my head on his shoulder.
“I got the email today," I say softly.
He glances down at me, his expression hard to read in the soft gold of the porch light. "Yeah?"
I nod. "They offered me a book deal."
The words still don’t feel real in my mouth. A year ago I was posting lip gloss reels and pretending that was purpose. Now, someone wants me to write what actually happened.
His smile is slow but wide. "Ellie. That’s amazing."
"It’s not a huge advance or anything, but… they want a collection of essays. About grief, healing, love. About coming home."
He leans in and kisses my temple. "So, basically your life?"
"Basically."
The porch creaks beneath us. Somewhere in the trees, a chorus of cicadas sings its summer song. Fireflies dance at the edges of the yard, blinking in and out like forgotten stars.
"I was thinking of calling it Trending Hearts," I say.
Brooks lets out a soft laugh. "It fits."
"It feels like everything’s trending, you know? What we eat. What we wear. What we buy. But maybe it’s time we talk about where our hearts are trending. What we care about. What we’re choosing."
He squeezes my hand. "What’s yours choosing?"
I look up at him. "You."
His expression softens in that way that always gets me. The quiet awe, the slow melting of all those defenses he thinks he still needs to hold.
"Well," he says, "I hope mine’s choosing you back. Otherwise, we’re on two very awkward trajectories."
I laugh, full and free. And I don’t just feel like I’m home, I am home.
Brooks took that job he kept talking about last fall.
Nothing flashy, just a local construction company that builds sustainable housing in small towns.
He loves it. He wears a hard hat and argues about insulation like it’s a religion.
Sometimes, I record him without his knowing, bent over blueprints or walking a site with dirt on his boots.
Those clips always get a ridiculous number of views.
People love him. Of course they do.
He’s the kind of man who fixes squeaky porch steps without being asked. Who checks on your mom when you’re too tired to get out of bed. Who never says "I told you so," even when he absolutely could.
He sold his house. The one with the peeling paint and the broken back step. He never said it outright, but I think letting it go was his way of moving forward, too. Of saying, ‘I don’t have to carry this alone anymore.’
Now he lives here. Not in Jasper’s room. Not on the couch. In my room.
Our room.
The same one I painted when I was sixteen. The same one Dad once stood in the doorway of, arms crossed, lecturing me about curfews. The same one I cried in the first night I came back after Dad died.
Sometimes, I still wake up reaching for my phone, like I’m supposed to be checking engagement or answering emails at 5 a.m. Panic hits, and for a second I forget where I am.
Then I feel Brooks’ hand on my hip, hear his breathing, and remember I’m not chasing anymore.
I’m allowed to just be here. Wanting something that isn’t performance doesn’t make me boring. It just makes me alive.
We’ve been talking about renovating the house. Maybe turning the attic into a little writing space for me. Maybe turning Jasper’s old room into a small nursery for someday. Not now. But someday.
"Do you think your mom would let us repaint the kitchen?" Brooks asks.
I grin. "Only if we keep the cabinets yellow. She says they make the room feel like sunshine."
"She’s not wrong."
"No, she’s not."
We sit in silence for a while, letting the quiet stretch and settle.
"Hey, Brooks?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I’m finally okay." Not because everything’s fixed. Because I finally stopped trying to be.
He doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me closer and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
I think about the first time he held my hand. The first time he kissed me. The first time I left and the second time I did.
And the times I came back.
We don’t talk about the what-ifs anymore. We talk about what is. What’s next. What matters.
And this? This matters.
A porch swing. Two glasses of iced tea. A summer night scented with honeysuckle and pine.
Fireflies blinking. Laughter rising.
And love.
Quiet, real, trending-in-the-right-direction kind of love.