I didn't wake up the next morning feeling magically better.
No cinematic montage. No inspirational music.
Just the faint hum of my alarm and the morning sun creeping through the window cracks — soft, hesitant, like even it wasn't sure I was ready to shine again.
But I got out of bed.
And for the first time in nearly a week, I didn't scroll through old messages, or search James's social media, or rehearse that Valentine's Day humiliation in my head like a tragic soliloquy.
Instead, I opened my laptop and started typing.
"Dear Professor Randle,
I sincerely apologize for missing classes this week. I had a personal setback, but I'm catching up on the readings and would love any additional assignments you recommend.
Thank you for your patience,
— Charlotte Samson"
I hit send before I could second-guess it.
It was a small thing — an email — but it made me feel in control again. Not invisible. Not fragile.
Just… present.
When Sophie saw me brushing my hair that morning, her jaw dropped like I'd announced I was joining a biker gang.
"Are you—wait—is this a hologram? Charlotte Samson willingly leaving her fortress of sadness?"
I smirked. "Don't make it weird."
"Oh, I'm going to make it weirdly epic," she said, grabbing her hairbrush like a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's the return of our girl, our scholar, our heartbreak heroine — CHAR-LOTTE SAAAAAAM-SON!"
She actually sang it.
I groaned, tossed a pillow at her, and nearly laughed myself into tears.
Walking across campus that day felt… surreal.
Some people still whispered. Some stared. But the sky was bright, and my playlist was on shuffle, and something about seeing the ordinary world again — students rushing, bikes zooming, laughter echoing — made me realize how much I'd missed being part of it.
I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was choosing to show up.
Sophie and I spent the evening in the library — not out of guilt, but because it felt good to care again.
We spread our books across a table like soldiers preparing for battle.
Sophie groaned over her statistics homework while I dove into biology, and somewhere between mutual complaining and snack breaks, I looked at her and said, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being there. For not letting me fall apart alone. For reminding me who I am."
She looked up from her notebook and grinned. "You're welcome. But to be clear… I still expect you to help me pass stats."
That night, I started a new journal.
Not about James. Not about pain.
But about me.
About the girl who once thought she had to be quiet to survive.
About the woman who now knew that her voice, her mind, her heart — they weren't burdens.
They were power.
I didn't need James to make me visible.
I needed me.
And for the first time in a long time…
I saw myself clearly.