The first light of dawn brushed Fiona's face with gold, like the gentle hand of the universe saying, Wake up, you made it through the night. The warmth didn't burn—it kissed. And for the first time in what felt like years, Fiona didn't flinch from it.
Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, and she opened her eyes slowly. There was still sleep in them, yes, but not the kind laced with dread or confusion. No panic. No fear. Just stillness. And something deeper—clarity, perhaps. Peace.
She lay there, unmoving, her body cocooned in soft sheets. The echo of her dream pulsed faintly in her chest. Lavender fields. The stars. The fork in the path. The two men—Dominic and Damein—both aching, both broken, both hoping she'd choose them.
But it wasn't their voices that lingered.
It was the whisper.
"You don't have to choose anyone but yourself."
Fiona breathed in deeply. The air tasted different now. Like it belonged to her.
She sat up slowly, brushing tangled strands of hair from her face. Her fingertips grazed her cheek, as if confirming she was still here, still whole. Her face—reflected in the morning light—wasn't fragile anymore. It was marked by exhaustion, yes, but also something else: strength.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. There was no rush in her movements, no nervous hesitation. Just calm purpose. Her bare feet touched the floor like a quiet vow.
Walking to the mirror, she stopped.
And this time, she didn't glance.
She looked.
Really looked.
And what stared back at her wasn't the shattered girl who had tried to fix everyone's world while bleeding silently in the corners of her own. It wasn't the version of herself that begged for crumbs of affection, or tried to be "enough" for men who couldn't even love themselves.
This—this was someone else entirely.
This was a girl who had walked through fire and silence.
This was a girl who had finally met herself in the wreckage—and chose to stay.
She exhaled shakily, her hand resting on the dresser for just a moment. Then she began to pack. No panic. No overthinking. Just what mattered. A few clothes. A notebook. Her favorite mug. A book she'd never finished. And the smallest photo of her younger self, just to remind her who she was returning to.
By the time she zipped her suitcase, the sun had fully risen, casting long shadows across the floor. She slipped on her shoes, threw on a jacket, and pulled her bag behind her.
The hallway outside was still quiet—almost reverent, like the universe knew not to interrupt.
Fiona stepped outside.
The morning breeze met her like an old friend, brushing her skin with tenderness. The scent of salt and sea filled her lungs. Somewhere in the distance, seagulls called and waves crashed—a reminder that the world moved on no matter who broke your heart.
She walked down the path toward the car.
Adam was there, his girlfriend beside him, leaning against the hood, mid-conversation. They both looked up when they saw her.
He straightened. "Fiona?"
She smiled softly—not bitter, not sarcastic. Just… honest.
"I'm leaving," she said, the words clear and solid in the air. "Alone. Just for a while."
Adam stepped forward instinctively, his brows creasing. "Where?"
Fiona tilted her head, as if listening to something only she could hear. She smiled again, this time wider, freer.
"Wherever my heart leads."
Silence fell between them. The kind that wasn't uncomfortable, but full of understanding.
Adam didn't ask more. His girlfriend didn't question.
Because they saw it, too.
This wasn't a goodbye out of pain or impulse. This wasn't a girl running anymore.
This was a woman choosing.
As Fiona turned and walked toward the waiting cab, her suitcase rolling behind her, her steps grew lighter. She didn't look back. Not once.
The morning sun spilled across the road like a path just for her. And in the quiet space between heartbreak and healing, Fiona found what she never thought she'd have.
Herself.