The pen hovered above the page like it was afraid to commit.
Amy's fingers ached slightly from holding it too tightly, and the notebook....her notebook, the one with the moon sticker she had plastered on the front months ago was open to a page that had stayed blank for far too long. She carried it everywhere she went just incase she had a burst of book ideas and needed to put it down immediately. She could have done it with her phone but she once told Sophie that it feels much more better when she writes the words and even better because she keeps writing without stopping.
She exhaled, deep and quiet.
The back room of the bookstore was still. Candace, the new hire with flaming red curls and a lip ring that somehow suited her chipper attitude, was out front tending to the counter. The soft bell above the door rang every so often, but it felt distant, muffled behind the heavy curtain that separated the breakroom from the rest of the store.
Amy had come in early to restock new arrivals, but instead found herself seated on a wooden stool, legs curled beneath her, staring at a sentence she'd written weeks ago:
"Some goodbyes don't echo. They just fade."
It had been too painful to continue the story after that.
The book the one she had once told Mrs. Thompson about had begun as a quiet side project, a fictionalized patchwork of her own experiences. She never meant to turn her pain into words. But words had always been her way back.
A sound stirred near the curtain. Mrs. Thompson's head peeked in, a pair of reading glasses perched low on her nose. "Amy?"
Amy jumped slightly and straightened. "Oh...I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to leave the front. Candace was just.."
Mrs. Thompson waved her off. "Candace has it covered. She's practically glued to that front desk. Let her enjoy it."
Amy hesitated. "I just thought I'd sit for a bit. I didn't expect to… keep writing."
Mrs. Thompson stepped in and smiled, eyes crinkling. "Well, keep writing then. That story you started? It's still waiting for you. And no one else can tell it the way you can."
Amy blinked. For a moment, her throat went tight. She nodded. "Thank you."
Mrs. Thompson patted the doorframe lightly. "Don't thank me yet. Just finish the chapter."
With a warm smile, she vanished, and Amy was alone again.
The sentence stared back at her, still aching. But this time, Amy picked up her pen and wrote beneath it:
"But even faded echoes leave behind something. A memory, a feeling. A reason to keep going."
She kept writing. One line turned into a paragraph, and that paragraph turned into two. Her fingers moved slower than her thoughts, but for the first time in weeks, her heart wasn't dragging behind. She wasn't writing about him....not directly but somehow, everything was still about him. About love. About being seen. About choosing yourself when the world feels like it's already chosen against you.
A buzz from her phone pulled her out of her trance.
It was Sophie.
SOPHIE:Hey, you doing anything this weekend?
Amy smiled, thumb hovering before typing back.
AMY:Not really. Just working and writing.
The reply came almost instantly.
SOPHIE: That's new. I'm proud of you.
Amy locked the phone, warmth blooming faintly in her chest. She set it down, but before she could return to her page.. she opened Instagram out of habit, thumb flicking through her feed half-heartedly.
That's when she saw it.
A series of photos posted by @ellie_morgan_photo. Blurred faces of strangers in soft lighting. Pieces of glass. A child's hand on a windowpane. Reflections in puddles. And then Photo 5 of 8
A puddle reflecting a rusted signboard: You Are Here.
She froze.
It was his. She didn't even have to see the name to know. The composition. The quiet grief. The strange hope.
She scrolled down to the caption:
"Hope" A new exhibit by Jace Prescott now open at The VistaCollective Gallery. A meditation on stillness, memory, and how the world continues even when we don't."
Amy stared at the photo again.
The puddle. The sign. You Are Here.
She could feel it. That he had taken it not just with his camera, but with the same ache that lived in her chest too. The way she used words, he used light. Hope.
A soft, honest smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
She wasn't angry. Not anymore. She was… something else. Maybe proud. Maybe wistful.
Maybe finally ready to turn the page.
Amy reopened her notebook, hands steady now.
For the first time in a long time, the story wasn't just about loss.
It was about what comes next.
....
The rain had just ended when Amy stepped out of the bookstore. The city breathed with a kind of after-rain smell. She walked slowly to her car after waving at Candace.
By the time she reached her building, the sky was already turned gray. She climbed the steps, greeted the old lady and her dog that always curled up on the third floor landing, and unlocked her door.
Inside, the apartment felt warmer than usual.
She turned on the switch.
Made tea.
She opened her notebook, eyes glistening with what looked like pride over what she was able to write down. She was no longer unable to write. The words flew easily than it ever did. She just didn't know whether it had something to do with Jace's "You are here" puddle picture.
Another notification buzzed on her phone. Sophie again.
Sophie: Still sure you're free on the weekend?....we could go to the club....the nice one.... maybe we can invite Ethan "
Amy laughed under her breath and sent back immediately.
Amy: "Club?....I'd think about it....I'm sure it'd be very fun"
She got up and stepped out onto her balcony, her tea warming her hands. Below, the city was humming peacefully.
In the distance, somewhere beyond all this, she knew Jace was out there, doing the same in his own way. Healing. Creating. Becoming.
They both were.
Not everything had to be rushed. Some things took time.
Amy closed her eyes, let the breeze touch her face, and for the first time in a long while, she let herself feel proud. Not because she didn't still hurt. But because she hadn't let the pain stop her.
Not this time.