Page 136 of Fangirl

“Why not?”

I exhale slowly, trying to find the words. “Because I want to wait for my agent to sell it. For the edits. For the version that feels a little less like my open wound.”

Maya tilts her head.

“The thing is…” I chew the inside of my cheek. “It’s not just a book. It’s basically a manifestation. A diary entry disguised as fiction. It’s my story. Jake’s and my story, written out in metaphors and fake names and places that don’t exist—but every line feels too close to the truth.”

Her expression softens with quiet realization.

“It helped me to write it. It was therapy. But the ending…” My voice trails off. I shake my head. “I’m not ready for someone who knows me to read that ending. Not yet.”

She steps forward and wraps her arms around me. “Okay. I get it. When you are ready—I’ll be here. Always.”

I squeeze her tight, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Because one day, I’ll have to let it all go. But for now? This is mine.

Thirty comes quietly.

I spend the day curled up on my sofa with a bottle of chilled chardonnay and a store-bought Victoria sponge cake. Tonight, I’ll go out with Maya and a few of the girls from book club. But right now, being here—soft clothes,warm blanket, cake fork in hand—feels right. Feels like me.

I told my family I couldn’t make it for the weekend. I couldn’t deal with the thinly veiled pity, the well-meaning jabs, the “poor Amy” whispers passed between relatives like napkins. I’ll get enough of that at Steve’s wedding in a couple of weeks—I don’t need the encore.

Still, I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting, just a little, that I haven’t heard from Jake.

Not a call. Not a text.

And I can’t even be mad.

The truth is, no matter how much time has passed since I left… I still see it. That look on his face. The way it broke him. The way I broke him.

And the worst part? This time, it wasn’t his fault. Not really.

This one was on me.

It’s late in the afternoon when I hear a knock at the door.

I roll my eyes, already picturing Maya with her hands on her hips, ready to drag me out for my birthday drinks, convinced I’ll bail.

She’s not wrong. I’m cocooned, soft and warm in my solitude, and the idea of heels and bar music makes me want to crawl back under my blanket.

I pad to the door, expecting a lecture.

But it’s not Maya.

It’s a man I don’t recognize, holding what can only be described as a masterpiece disguised as a bouquet—a dome of delicate, luminous blue petals so vivid they hardly seem real.

Blue Himalayan poppies.

Notdyed. Not silk.Real.

He checks his clipboard and asks me to sign. I do—barely registering the pen in my hand. My whole focus is on the flowers.

Because they’re mine.

He remembered.

Not in the “my childhood garden” kind of way. No, they became my favorite because ofPersefia.