The day began the way all heartbreaks should quiet, golden, and almost too beautiful to believe something could go wrong.
Everspring lay beneath a gentle autumn sun, the trees rustling in whispers and the breeze carrying the faint scent of cinnamon from the nearby bakery. A perfect Saturday, the kind that asked nothing of you but to exist gently within it. But inside the ivy-covered cottage at the edge of Wren Lane, Aurora "Rory" Thompson sat in the window seat, her knees drawn up to her chest, journal open, pen hovering.
She had written three sentences and scratched them all out.
The fourth remained:
"It's terrifying to be seen. But worse, I think, to be misunderstood while hiding."
She stared at it. Her fingers trembled, not with fear this time, but with the ache of remembering too much all at once.
It had been two days since Ethan gave her that poetry book.
Two days since the note tucked inside Letters from the Quiet Ones had folded her open like a letter too afraid to be mailed.
She hadn't seen him since then. She'd wanted to. Desperately. But something in her heart kept saying: Don't get used to being held if you don't know how they let go.
She closed the journal and reached for her tea cold again.
Her phone buzzed once. She ignored it. Then again. Another buzz. Then it rang.
Mom.
Her chest tightened.
She let it ring. But it rang again. Then again. Three missed calls in under a minute.
Reluctantly, she picked it up, letting it hover against her cheek before answering.
"Hi, Mom."
Her mother's voice came sharp and anxious, like a knife wrapped in lace. "Aurora, I just saw something disturbing. Someone forwarded me a link. You're doing an interview?"
"What? Oh, that it's just a request. I haven't even accepted it yet."
"Why are we finding out through gossip? Don't you think your family should hear things like this from you?"
"I didn't think it was that serious. I'm still thinking about it"
"Thinking about what? Airing out your feelings for the whole world to judge? Aurora, you write such… intimate things. What if they twist your words? What if they use it against you?"
"Mom…" Rory began, her voice barely audible.
"I'm just saying, you've always been sensitive. And this kind of attention? It's not healthy. It's not real."
There it was. The old wound. Reopened with such ease.
Rory felt the heat behind her eyes, the familiar lump climbing up her throat. Her words stuck, muted beneath years of being talked over and second-guessed.
"I'm not ashamed of my writing," she managed, her voice shaking.
"Writing is fine as a hobby, Aurora. But the world doesn't need to know every sad little thing you've ever felt."
Silence.
Then click. Rory ended the call without another word.
She sat in the window for what felt like hours. Her tea went untouched. Her journal remained closed. Only her thoughts raced, louder than any storm.
It was nearly mid-afternoon when she finally put on her coat and stepped out into the cool breeze. The streets of Everspring were alive with quiet chatter, couples holding hands, shopkeepers arranging their displays, and wind chimes singing from porches.
The Golden Spine stood at the heart of it, warm light spilling through its windows like an invitation.
Rory stepped inside, greeted by the familiar smell of paper, wood, and coffee. But the comfort that usually wrapped around her like a blanket felt thinner today, fragile.
Miss Alva glanced up from behind the counter and offered her a soft smile. "Rough morning, dear?"
Rory gave a slight nod, unable to trust her voice.
"Go on upstairs," Miss Alva said gently. "I believe your poet's up there."
Rory's chest tightened. Your poet. The words felt too personal, too tender and yet, part of her liked the sound.
She climbed the staircase slowly. At the top, she paused just before reaching the loft.
She heard voices.
Ethan's voice. Low and sharp. And… a woman's. Confident. Cold.
Curious, Rory moved closer, staying just out of sight. She pressed her back to the wall, her breath held.
"You can't ignore me forever, Ethan," the woman said.
"I'm not ignoring you, Claire," Ethan replied. "I'm just… done letting you rewrite the story."
Claire.
Rory's chest contracted. Claire a name he had never spoken. A name heavy with history.
Claire laughed not kindly. "I'm not the one who ran away and buried himself in poetry."
"You used me," Ethan said, his tone quieter now, more raw. "Used my pain to make yourself feel better."
A beat of silence.
Then Claire stepped closer. Rory could hear the shift of her heels on the floorboards. "You never said no."
That's when Rory turned.
Slowly, silently, she descended the stairs and left the bookstore without a sound.
Back in her cottage, she couldn't sit still. Her thoughts were running too fast.
Who is she? Why now? Why didn't he tell me?
But the real question, the one she kept biting down, was:
Was I just another page in his story?
The ache wasn't jealousy. It was doubt the kind that cracked the foundation of everything gentle she'd let herself believe.
That night, Rory sat in darkness, only a single candle flickering beside her. Her journal lay closed beside her on the bed. Her phone buzzed again and again.
Ethan: Are you okay? Haven't seen you all day. Want to meet tomorrow at the park?
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
She typed:
Who's Claire?
Deleted it.
Typed again:
I'm fine. Just tired.
Deleted that, too.
In the end, she turned off the phone and crawled beneath her blanket, letting silence do the talking.
Not because she was angry.
But because she was scared of the answer.
The Next Morning
The sky was gray and hung low over the town like a sigh. It hadn't rained yet, but the air was thick with the promise of it.
Rory wandered to the park, unsure if she meant to see him or just feel close to where he might be.
The park was nearly empty. A few joggers. A man walking his dog. Leaves skittered across the paths like nervous thoughts.
She sat on a bench near the pond, the one with the broken slat and initials carved into its side: L.S. + T.M.
She imagined the people those letters belonged to. Were they still in love? Had they lasted?
A voice broke her thoughts.
"I wasn't sure if you'd come."
She turned.
Ethan stood a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, eyes guarded but soft.
"I almost didn't," she said honestly.
He nodded once. "I figured."
He sat beside her, leaving enough space for the silence to breathe between them.
"I need to explain," he said finally.
Rory said nothing.
"She wasn't supposed to show up here. Claire was… we were together a long time ago. Years. She wasn't bad. Just… toxic. She liked the idea of me. The version of me who bled into pages."
Rory stared straight ahead. "She said you never said no."
"I didn't know how," Ethan said. "Back then, I was broken and desperate to be wanted. She filled the silence. But she also twisted everything. Made my writing about her. About her sadness. Her drama. Her control. She published my poems under her name in a joint book deal once. I didn't stop her. I didn't believe I was worth protecting."
The pain in his voice made her finally look at him.
"She's why I left the city," he added. "Why I stopped performing. Why I came here."
"And why you don't talk about your past?" she asked.
He nodded.
They sat for a moment. The wind brushed through the trees like a whisper.
"I'm not Claire," Rory said quietly.
Ethan turned to her, eyes wide.
"I'm not trying to fix you. Or own you. I just… I want to be someone you choose to be honest with."
He exhaled, something heavy leaving his shoulders.
"I do choose you," he said.
She looked at him then, really looked and for the first time, she saw the scars behind the calm. The cracks in the poet's voice.
Maybe that was the real magic: seeing the mess and loving anyway.
She reached out, just enough to let their fingers brush.
Not a declaration. Not a promise.
But a beginning.
Later That Night
Back home, Rory opened her laptop and typed an email.
To: Lena Harmon
Subject: The Firelight Review Interview
Hi Lena,
Thank you for the opportunity. I've decided to do the interview but on one condition. No video. No spotlight. Just the words.
If they want to know me, they can read me.
Best,
Rory.
She hit send and leaned back, a strange mix of fear and freedom flooding her chest.
Outside, the rain finally began soft and steady, washing the weight of the day down into the earth.
And somewhere in town, maybe not far at all, she hoped Ethan was writing too.
Not for anyone else.
But for the same reason she had been lately.
Because words when true always find their way back to the one they belong to.