It wasn't a surprise.
Not really.
Elia had felt it coming.
In the silence.
In the shift.
In the way Kael stopped looking for her in crowds, stopped replying, stopped remembering.
But knowing didn't make it hurt less.
She saw the post first.
A photo of Kael and the girl—laughing, close, golden hour lighting like a movie scene.
The caption read:
> "Some chapters begin when you stop rereading the old ones."
It wasn't subtle.
It wasn't kind.
It was a declaration.
He had moved on.
Elia stared at the screen, her heart quiet.
Not broken.
Just… still.
She didn't cry.
She didn't rage.
She just felt like a ghost watching someone else live the life she used to imagine.
She saw them at school.
Holding hands.
Sharing headphones.
Sitting in the spot where she and Kael used to sketch and talk about dreams.
Her friends whispered.
"Are you okay?"
"Do you want to leave?"
"Should we unfollow him?"
She smiled.
"I'm fine."
But she wasn't.
She was surviving.
Because watching someone move on is a special kind of grief.
It's not just losing them.
It's losing the version of yourself that existed with them.
She started sketching again.
Not him.
Not them.
Just fragments—eyes, hands, silhouettes fading into the background.
She started journaling.
Not about Kael.
About herself.
Her healing.
Her glow-up.
She didn't block him.
She didn't mute him.
She just stopped checking.
Because healing isn't about erasing someone.
It's about choosing yourself, even when it hurts.
She saw them again a week later.
Kael laughed at something the girl said.
He didn't notice Elia standing nearby.
And for the first time, she didn't flinch.
She just watched.
Then walked away.
Not because she was weak.
But because she was done being the girl who waited.
Kael had moved on.
And Elia?
She was learning how to move forward.
Not from him.
But toward herself.