7. Settling In

Lena's POV

I woke to the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the morning sunlight spilling through the small curtains of my apartment. My body ached in ways I hadn’t realized it could every muscle stiff, my eyes swollen and raw from hours of crying the night before my throat was sore, my chest heavy and I felt as if the world had been pressing down on me, suffocating me with memories and grief.

I didn’t move immediately. I lay on my side, staring at the ceiling letting the quiet rhythm of the ocean seep into my bones. The night had been long and merciless. Packing my few belongings, leaving everything behind, saying goodbye to the life I had built with him it had drained me in a way nothing else ever had. I had expected pain, but I had not expected this raw hollow exhaustion that clung to me like a second skin.

Lena, you are alive. You are here. You are free.

The thought should have brought relief, but instead, it felt strange. Free, yes, but alone. Completely, irrevocably alone. No family, no friends, no one who could guide me or help me navigate this new life. I had the town, sure, but it was unfamiliar, strangers’ faces and muted streets that did not yet feel like home. I swallowed hard, my throat tight, and finally swung my legs over the side of the bed.

My feet touched the cold floor and I shivered. I wrapped my arms around myself feeling the weight of yesterday’s decisions, the hollow ache of his absence. Ethan. Even saying his name brought tears to my eyes. I had left him yes, but my heart refused to let go. I loved him still, despite everything. And I hated that I loved him so much.

I stumbled to the tiny bathroom and turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto my face. The reflection staring back at me was a stranger, exhausted and raw. Blue eyes rimmed with red, blonde hair mussed, cheeks hollowed by sadness. I looked at her at me and whispered, “You’re going to survive this.”

The words sounded hollow, even to my own ears, but I clung to them. Survival was all I had right now. Everything else hope, happiness, love would come later, if it came at all.

I dressed in the only comfortable clothes I had unpacked: jeans, a soft sweater, and worn sneakers. Simple, ordinary, unremarkable, and perfectly suited to the small town I had chosen as my hiding place. My apartment was quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound besides the ocean outside. I could feel the silence pressing against me, demanding I face the emptiness inside.

I moved to the small table by the window, my journal open and pen in hand. I hadn’t written since leaving the mansion; my grief had been too loud, too raw to allow anything else in. But now, with the first fragile light of morning spilling in, I began to write.

I wrote about my body, my exhaustion, the ache in my chest, the tears I had shed. I wrote about Ethan, about the divorce papers, about the way his green eyes had looked at me like I was nothing, like all our years together meant nothing. I wrote about the betrayal, the anger, and the bitter taste of loss that had lodged itself in my throat.

And yet, somewhere between the lines, I began to write about the small moments that had brought me here, to this new life. About the drive to the town, the first glimpse of the ocean, the smell of the salt air, the quiet streets lined with modest homes. I wrote about the grocery store clerk who smiled at me as if I belonged, and the way the sunlight had made the waves glitter like diamonds.

Writing became my anchor, a way to organize the chaos in my head. My tears came in sporadic bursts, wetting the pages, but I didn’t care. I let the grief pour out of me, refusing to bottle it up anymore. For the first time in days, I allowed myself to feel it fully. And with that feeling came a strange, fragile strength. I was hurting. I was broken. But I was still here. Still breathing. Still me.

After a long time, I set the pen down and stood, moving toward the small kitchenette. I needed coffee, a small ritual to remind myself that life went on even when my heart didn’t want it to. The kettle hissed as water boiled, the aroma of the coffee grounds filling the tiny apartment. I poured the dark liquid into a mug and wrapped my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my palms.

I carried the mug to the window, staring out at the pier. Boats rocked gently with the tide, seagulls circled lazily, and the town began to stir. People moved through the streets, going about their lives without a care for me, without knowledge of the woman who had arrived last night, carrying nothing but her grief and a fragile determination to survive.

I took a deep breath, letting the ocean air fill my lungs. I let it wash over me, trying to imagine that it could also wash away some of the pain, even if just a little.

I thought about the future about the work I would need to do, the routines I would have to build, the small victories that would eventually shape a life I could call my own. It was daunting. Terrifying. But it was real. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be okay.

I finished my coffee and went for a walk along the pier. The boards creaked under my feet as I moved slowly, taking in the sights and sounds. The town had a rhythm, a simple cadence I hadn’t felt in years. People laughed quietly on the docks, fishermen shouted at one another across the boats, and the ocean stretched endlessly, timeless and patient.

I let my mind wander, thinking about my life before. About the mansion, the parties, the appearances we kept up for the world. All of it felt meaningless now. All of it had led to this moment this place, this small town, this fragile chance to start over.

A gull screeched overhead, and I flinched slightly, startled by its sudden cry. I laughed softly at myself, shaking my head. The sound of the ocean, the wind, the birds it was grounding, anchoring me to the present. It reminded me that life continued, whether I was ready or not.

By the time I returned to my apartment, the sun was higher in the sky. I felt drained, physically and emotionally, but also strangely lighter. I had cried until my chest hurt, until my eyes were raw, until my heart felt too big for my own body. But I had survived it. I had made it through the night, through the tears, through the fear and loneliness. And I had emerged on the other side, still standing.

I sat back at the table, pen in hand again, and wrote one simple line: I am here. I am alive. I will not let this break me.

It was a small victory, a fragile promise to myself. But it was a beginning. And beginnings, no matter how shaky, no matter how painful, were worth holding onto.

The ocean called to me through the window, and I listened. I didn’t have answers. I didn’t have a plan. But I had time. And for the first time since leaving Los Angeles, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time hope.