Eleena didn't expect anyone to read her story.
Not really.
She told herself it didn't matter — that the writing had been for her, not the world. That the act of telling was the victory, not the attention.
But attention came anyway.
It started with a message from a woman named Renee.
> "Hi Eleena, I read 'The Leaving Season' in the journal this morning and cried in the middle of my kitchen. I left someone last year who made me forget how to be kind to myself. Your words reminded me that I wasn't weak for walking away. Thank you."
Then came another.
> "You don't know me, but I know that kind of ache. I felt seen."
Dozens more followed.
She was stunned. Not by the numbers — but by the intimacy. Complete strangers, baring wounds, thanking her for doing the same.
The story she wrote in a quiet room, heart trembling, had become a mirror for others.
But the message that stopped her cold came five days later.
From Harper.
Jace's ex.
The one who came before Eleena. The woman whose name had once made Eleena feel small and jealous and afraid.
Her message was short.
> "I read your story. I know who it's about. And I wanted to say... I understand. Maybe more than you think. If you ever want to talk, I'd be honored to buy you coffee. Not to compare wounds — just to say: you're not alone."
Eleena stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Of all the people…
She almost ignored it.
Almost deleted the message and kept the past neatly behind glass. But something deeper whispered:
> What if this is part of your healing, too?
So she replied.
Two days later, they met at a small café just outside the city — one that smelled like cinnamon and safety. Harper was already there, wearing a dark green sweater and holding a paperback novel, no makeup, no tension.
She looked up and smiled when Eleena walked in.
"I almost didn't come," Eleena said honestly, as she sat down.
"I almost didn't message you," Harper replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I'm glad we're both here."
There was a long pause.
Then, slowly, they talked.
About the ways Jace had loved them differently — and hurt them similarly. About the parts of themselves they'd buried for his approval. About how easy it was to mistake chaos for passion.
Harper's voice cracked when she said, "I was angry at you. When you two started dating. But mostly, I was angry at myself. Because I saw him doing to you what he did to me… and I still wanted him to change."
Eleena blinked back tears. "I used to blame you. I thought I was the one he chose — the one who fixed him. And when it broke, I didn't know who to be anymore."
They sat there, two women who had once felt like enemies — and instead became mirrors for each other's pain.
By the end of the conversation, they weren't friends. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But they were free.
That night, Eleena returned home to find Calen reading on her couch, waiting with takeout and a bottle of red wine.
She curled up next to him and told him everything.
About Harper. The message. The café. The honesty.
He didn't flinch. Didn't interrupt.
Just listened, then kissed the top of her head.
"You're brave," he said.
"No," she whispered. "I'm just finally telling the truth."
Later, before bed, she opened her journal and wrote:
> Healing used to feel like a quiet room where no one could touch me.
But now I know — healing can also be holding someone's hand while you walk through the fire, together.
Not because they'll save you.
But because they see you, and you don't feel afraid anymore.
She closed the book, smiling.
Her story had reached back.
And instead of hurting her — it had healed someone else.