Epilogue
Dylan
One Year Later
Hi KitKat,
I know it’s been a year, and for the first time, I’m actually not calling because I miss you—I mean, I do, I always will—but because I want to tell you I’m okay. I made it. I’m living again.
I thought I had to keep calling, as if holding onto your voice would keep you here. But I know now—I don’t need to say your name into the static to know you’re listening. You’re everywhere. In every sunrise, every song, every ridiculous inside joke that still makes me laugh. You never left me. And because of that…this is my last call.
I think you’d like who I’m becoming. I think I like her too. Maybe that’s what healing really is—not about forgetting or replacing, but making space for joy alongside the sorrow.
So, guess what?
I’m a teacher now. Can you believe it? An art teacher, of all things. Rockport High needed someone after Mr. Lyons retired, and somehow, that someone ended up being me. Wild, right? But the real surprise? I love it. Every day, I stand in the middle of a whirlwind of color and possibility, watching kids pour themselves into their ideas. I never imagined I’d be the one nudging hands toward creation, but here I am. It’s not just a job. It’s a privilege. One I never expected, never even considered. But now that I have it, I’ll fight like hell to keep it.
You probably wouldn’t believe it if I told you, but a few months ago, Brooks and I went to Paris. I still can’t say it without feeling like I’m dreaming. I don’t know if it was the city itself or the way the two of us fit into it, but something about being there felt like proof that no matter how much time has passed, some people are meant to find their way back to each other.
I saw the Louvre, Beckett. It was overwhelming, but in the absolute best way. I stood in front of The Winged Victory of Samothrace for what felt like hours, tracing the arc of her missing arms in my mind, wondering if she felt incomplete or if she had transcended the need for wholeness.
At the Musée de l’Orangerie, I sat in front of Monet’s Water Lilies, letting the ethereal blues, moody purples, and lush greens consume me. The brushstrokes weren’t perfect up close—messy, layered, chaotic—but when I stepped back, the image softened into something infinite. It made me see my own life as a series of jagged strokes on a canvas—chaotic up close, but maybe, from a different angle, something beautiful could take shape.
Oh! I also got Brooks a vase. Not because I’m sentimental, but because I owed him one. The Drift’s lobby used to have a perfectly nice one—until it met an unfortunate, tequila-induced demise at my hands, or more accurately, my stomach. So, in the spirit of redemption, I scoured Paris for a worthy replacement, set it in the lobby when we got back, and watched as Brooks’ expression flickered from irritation to reluctant amusement. I think we’re even now.
Now, we’re sort of living together. And honestly, KitKat? It feels unbelievably right. I left my apartment in New York without a second thought. For a while, I stayed at the hotel, giving Brooks and me time to relearn each other. Not that we ever really changed.
Then, one night, one conversation, and suddenly, I was moving in. I teased him that he just wanted to make more money off the room he was practically giving me, but we both knew better. It wasn’t about money or convenience. It was about us. Reclaiming something we lost and making it ours again.
Now, here we are. The way everything has fallen into place—it’s almost eerie. I can’t remember the last time I felt this secure, this sure of where I’m supposed to be. Probably not since you were here. I don’t know. My life, my choices—even my heart—are mine again, no longer claimed by grief.
I see Blake a few times a week, and every time, she’s grown—not just in inches but in confidence. She talks more, laughs louder, and when she dances, she lights up in a way that makes my heart explode. She lives for it, and I never miss a chance to take her, to sit and watch as she moves like the music is part of her. She commands the studio with the same ease you had on the field. And though I miss those bleacher seats, I wouldn’t trade this view for anything.
I’m not chasing some perfect version of happiness anymore. I’m just here, now, letting life happen instead of bracing for the worst. It’s freeing, terrifying, and completely necessary.
Mom’s still sober, every day she chooses that fight, and I’m trying to meet her where she is. I don’t know what our relationship will look like in the end, but I know this—she’s trying. And that’s something.
After today, your number won’t ring. Your voicemail won’t catch my words—but I’ll never stop talking to you. Your heartbeat shaped me before I even opened my eyes. I’ll love you past forever, Beckett—even when time forgets us.
Death can’t rewrite that.