Page 13 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

EVIE

T he sun is relentless today—too bright, too honest. One of those days that refuses to let you hide, no matter how many layers you throw on or how tight you grip your camera strap like it’s armor.

The boardwalk’s buzzing—families with sticky fingers and too-loud laughs, vendors shouting over each other, the smell of deep-fried dough trying its best to make me feel something.

I don’t.

I’ve been shooting for hours. Festival prep. Candid crowd shots. Dock-side portraits. Anything to keep my hands busy and my head noisy.

Anything but think about last night.

About Aeron, and the way his voice broke a little when he said my name after. About the way I ran.

Again.

The click of the shutter is my only steady heartbeat.

“Miss, can you get one of us by the saltwater taffy stand?”

I nod without looking up. “Line up and smile.”

They pose. I click. I move on.

It’s autopilot now. I chase light and ignore the shadows biting at my heels. I duck into the alley behind The Gilded Page to swap memory cards, wipe my lens, and breathe.

And of course that’s where Liara finds me.

She’s a vision of controlled chaos—blue streaks in her hair catching the light, cropped hoodie splattered with paint, eyes sharp as a storm about to start something. She’s holding a can of fizzy juice and looks like she’s been waiting.

“Been looking for you,” she says.

I grunt. “Well, congratulations. What do I win?”

She tosses the can at me. I catch it one-handed.

“Hydration and a verbal ass-kicking,” she replies sweetly.

“Hard pass on both.”

“Too bad. You’re getting one either way.” She folds her arms. “What the hell was that last night?”

I pop the tab and take a swig to buy time. “Define ‘that.’”

Liara cocks her head. “Don’t play dumb, Bright. You ghosted. Again.”

“I didn’t?—”

“You did. Don’t start with semantics.”

I glare at her. “I needed air.”

“You needed to flee,” she corrects, stepping closer. “You looked him in the eye, saw that maybe he still loves you, and you ran.”

My jaw tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” she says, voice low now. “You’ve been here two weeks, Evie. You’ve gotten the lay of the land, mapped out the exits, catalogued the risks. But you haven’t taken one damn step toward staying.”

I stare down into the can, bubbles rising like accusations.

“You know what scares me?” Liara continues. “It’s not that you’ll leave again. It’s that you’ll do it and convince yourself it’s some noble sacrifice instead of just fear dressed up pretty.”

My throat goes tight. I don’t answer.

She sighs, softer this time. “I get it, okay? Love wrecks. Staying costs. But if you think for one second Aeron isn’t worth the mess, you’re lying to yourself.”

I finish the drink in one swallow, then hand the can back to her. “Thanks for the pep talk, Dr. Chaos.”

She gives me a look—sharp but warm. “You’re welcome. Now go home before you spontaneously combust.”

Home.

God, what a loaded word.

I kick open the door of the beach house like it insulted me personally. My boots are full of sand. My bra’s digging into my ribs. And my chest won’t stop aching like I left something vital back on that couch last night.

I throw my bag on the armchair, strip off my camera harness, and head for the kitchen—where the real ghosts live. And by ghosts, I mean paperwork. Estate crap. Stacks of mail I’ve been dodging like a coward.

I make it five minutes into sorting before the attic calls.

No. Not “calls.” Accuses .

I grit my teeth and stomp upstairs. I tell myself it’s just to clear space. Just to get things moving toward a sale. Just to prove I’m in control.

But I know better.

The box is labeled Misc – Sentimental in my mother’s elegant, looping script. I hated her handwriting. Too perfect. Too delicate. Like everything she touched would break.

I pry the lid open.

Photographs. Mostly of me. Some of her and me. A few of just her, younger, wild-eyed, barefoot at some protest or another.

And then—letters.

One envelope sits right at the bottom, thick and sealed. No name. Just If She Comes Home scrawled across the front in faded red ink.

My fingers go numb.

I sink onto the attic floor and rip it open.

It’s long. Pages folded over pages, yellowed and fragile.

Her handwriting again. Neater this time. Intimate.

Evie,

If you’re reading this, then I’m not there to give you the speech in person. And knowing you, you’ve already made three exit strategies and packed twice.

I see you, kid. Because you’re me.

I ran from love, once. Maybe more than once. Thought freedom meant solitude. Thought being alone made me stronger.

But here’s what I learned too late: distance doesn’t protect you. It just postpones the grief.

Love doesn’t ask you to lose yourself. It dares you to be more of who you already are.

And yeah—it might wreck you. But so will regret. Quietly. Daily. Soft as a knife you never feel going in.

If Aeron’s still there... if he still looks at you like the tide waits for your breath... don’t run.

You don’t have to be brave all the time.

You just have to stop pretending you don’t want to stay.

I hope you stay.

—Mom

My hands are shaking.

I read it again. Then a third time.

And the truth slams through me like a rogue wave: I’m not scared of Aeron breaking my heart. I’m scared he won’t try to stop me if I walk away.

Because that would mean I never mattered.

That all these years I kept him in my chest like a damn anchor... were mine alone.

I wipe my eyes hard with the back of my wrist.

“Shit,” I whisper.

And then I say it louder.

“Shit.”

Because now I’ve got a choice.

And I don’t know how to make it.

By twilight, I’m out on the back porch with a bottle of wine I told Rowan I wouldn’t open without her. Too bad. Desperation trumps sentimentality.

The waves crash below, steady and cruel.

My camera’s beside me, untouched.

Because for once, I’m not interested in freezing time.

I want to move forward.

And maybe toward something I don’t have to run from.