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ALICE

T he end-of-camp energy is like the last notes of a campfire song—sweet, slow, and a little bittersweet. Everything feels softer, like the trees themselves are sighing in rhythm with the kids as they run through their last cabin competitions and midnight prank wars.

I walk through the art shed with a clipboard in one hand and Rubi’s latest glitter explosion drying in the other. Nolan’s comic pages are pinned to the wall now, right above a crooked banner that says “YOU ARE MAGIC” in big, hand-painted letters.

And the wildest part?

I believe it.

Because something’s shifted in me.

Like the last few weeks scraped away the parts that didn’t fit anymore—fear, grief, all that leftover ache from the past—and left me with just… this.

A life that feels like mine.

I walk out toward the rec field where Jason’s helping Ferix and two other campers stack wood for the bonfire. He’s got a twig in his hair, a sunburn across one shoulder, and a grin like he knows something about the world nobody else does.

And I realize, I’m not thinking about Sam.

I’m not wondering what he’s doing, who he’s with, or if he’s still posting perfect brunch photos with someone else’s hand on his coffee mug.

I haven’t thought about him in days.

Not with longing.

Not even with bitterness.

Just… nothing.

He’s a shadow I walked through.

And Jason?

Jason is sunlight.

“Hey,” he calls, waving me over. “Your dragon child’s trying to set kindling on fire with his eyes again.”

Nolan grins sheepishly and points at a twig. “It’s kinda working.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “No burns, no foul.”

I shake my head, but my chest is warm as I cross the field and sit in the grass beside them.

Ferix leans into me. “Miss Alice, are you staying next summer?”

I glance at Jason, then back to the kid. “Yeah. I am.”

His face lights up. “Cool. We need someone to make the good slime.”

Jason snorts. “I knew it was about slime.”

But I don’t care what it’s about.

Because hearing that question—and answering it without hesitation—feels like a victory I didn’t know I was waiting for.

I’m staying.

For me.

Not because I’m running.

But because I’ve found something worth holding onto.

That night, as the sky turns dusky and kids start gathering for the bonfire, I sneak into our cabin to grab my sweater. The one Jason says makes me look like a cozy hedgehog.

I spot my journal on the windowsill—half-filled, bent at the corners. A few weeks ago, it was all questions.

Who am I without him? What do I want?

Tonight, I don’t have to write the answers.

I feel them.

I pull the sweater over my head and catch a glimpse of myself in the little cracked mirror above the dresser.

And for once?

I look exactly how I feel.

Solid.

Settled.

Like I finally fit into my own skin.

Outside, the bonfire crackles and the stars begin to appear, one by one.

Jason’s already there, kids orbiting around him like he’s their personal gravity. His eyes find me in the crowd and soften instantly.

I take the spot next to him.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just takes my hand.

And that’s the moment I know—deep in my bones—I’m where I’m meant to be.

After the bonfire winds down and the last of the marshmallows have been incinerated by overzealous campers, Jason and I sit on the steps of our new cabin, legs stretched out, the warm hum of embers still crackling across the lake.

He’s got that faraway look—half content, half exhausted.

I lean into him gently, letting my head rest on his shoulder. “Hey.”

He turns, just a little. “Yeah?”

“I’ve been meaning to say something,” I murmur. “And I keep chickening out.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Alice I know.” His voice is teasing but soft.

I pull my knees up, arms wrapping around them. “I spent a long time feeling like I wasn’t enough.”

Jason goes still beside me, listening.

“I kept trying to be everything for someone who didn’t know what it meant to love someone fully. Sam… he cheated. More than once. And I let it make me feel like I wasn’t worth staying for.”

Jason’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t speak.

“And then I came here,” I continue, voice shaking a little, “and met this obnoxiously shirtless werewolf who insisted on climbing trees without ladders and helping kids learn to be proud of themselves. And before I even realized it... I wasn’t looking backward anymore.”

He shifts, facing me now.

I meet his eyes. “You helped me move forward. Not by fixing me. Just… by being kind. By showing me how it feels like to be safe and seen.”

He exhales slowly, then cups my face gently with one hand. “You were never not enough, Alice. He just couldn’t see what was right in front of him.”

I close my eyes, letting the words settle.

And then I whisper, “I think I’m starting to see it now.”

His thumb brushes my cheek.

“You’re more than enough,” he says. “You’re everything. ”

And with the firelight flickering in the distance and the stars finally coming out to play.

I believe him.