Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Comfort of Routine

The days after Erin’s encounter with Mia passed in a blur of conflicted emotions. Lucas texted her once, a curt message asking if she was “over whatever this is” and ready to talk. She stared at it for what felt like hours, her thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Her usual instinct was to respond immediately, to apologize for being a burden, to reassure him that she’d do better. But now, her hesitation wasn’t just about what to say—it was about whether she wanted to say anything at all.

Instead of replying, she opened her journal.

I don’t know if I’m brave enough to let go, she wrote.

But maybe I don’t have to decide all at once. Maybe I can start by figuring out who I am when I’m not chasing after him.

The words felt like a small rebellion, a tentative step toward reclaiming the pieces of herself she’d buried for so long.

That afternoon, Erin found herself back at the park. She carried her journal in one hand and a tote bag slung over her shoulder, holding supplies she hadn’t touched in years: a sketchbook and a set of pencils.

The park was quieter than before, the chill in the air keeping most people indoors. Erin settled onto the same bench she’d shared with Mia, setting her things beside her. She opened the sketchbook, the blank pages staring back at her like a challenge.

Her hand trembled as she picked up a pencil, the weight of it both familiar and foreign. She scanned her surroundings, her eyes landing on a small bird perched on the edge of the fountain. Its feathers puffed up against the cold, and its tiny body seemed so fragile yet determined.

Erin began to draw.

At first, her lines were hesitant, unsure. But as she worked, the movements became more fluid, more natural. She lost herself in the rhythm of it, the way the pencil glided across the paper, bringing the bird to life.

By the time she looked up, the sun was setting, casting the park in hues of gold and amber. The bird was gone, but its image remained on the page, a small reminder that beauty could be found even in the smallest, most fleeting moments.

For the first time in years, Erin felt a sense of accomplishment that wasn’t tied to Lucas or anyone else. The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying.

The next morning, Erin woke with a strange sense of purpose. She wasn’t sure where it came from, but she decided to follow it. She spent the day cleaning her apartment, tackling piles of clutter she had ignored for months.

As she sorted through old boxes and papers, she found pieces of her past—photographs, ticket stubs, notes from friends she hadn’t spoken to in years. Each item was a reminder of who she used to be before she’d let herself disappear into Lucas’s world.

One photo caught her attention: a group shot from college, taken during a camping trip. Erin was in the center, laughing with her arms around two friends, Liz and Sarah. She remembered that weekend vividly—the hikes, the late-night conversations by the fire, the sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in years.

She set the photo aside, making a mental note to reach out to them.

The rest of the week followed a similar pattern. Erin began to establish small routines—morning walks, afternoons spent sketching, evenings journaling. She avoided her phone as much as possible, resisting the urge to check for messages from Lucas.

The first few days were the hardest. The silence felt oppressive, and her mind was constantly at war with itself. Part of her longed to reach out to him, to return to the comfort of their familiar dynamic, no matter how unhealthy it was. But another part of her, the part that had been ignited by Mia’s words, urged her to keep going.

Each day, the weight of that dependence felt a little lighter.

By the end of the week, Erin found herself standing in front of a small art supply store she used to frequent. The bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside, the smell of paint and paper instantly transporting her back to a time when art had been her sanctuary.

“Erin? Is that you?”

She turned to see an older woman behind the counter, her face lighting up with recognition. It was Mrs. Campbell, the store owner, who had always been kind and encouraging.

“It’s been years!” Mrs. Campbell said, coming around the counter. “I was starting to think you’d given up on art entirely.”

Erin smiled sheepishly. “I guess I kind of did. But I’m trying to get back into it.”

“Well, it’s never too late,” Mrs. Campbell said warmly. “What are you working on these days?”

“Just… sketches, mostly,” Erin admitted. “Trying to find my footing again.”

Mrs. Campbell nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “I have just the thing for you. Wait here.”

She disappeared into the back of the store, returning a moment later with a small, leather-bound sketchbook.

“This is one of my favorites,” she said, placing it in Erin’s hands. “Something about the texture of the paper—it’s perfect for experimenting.”

Erin ran her fingers over the cover, the weight of it grounding her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

As she left the store, her tote bag now heavier with supplies, Erin felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

That evening, Erin sat at her kitchen table, the new sketchbook open in front of her. She hesitated, her pencil hovering above the page. She thought of Lucas, of how she used to draw for him, hoping to earn his praise. But this time, she wasn’t drawing for anyone else.

She closed her eyes, letting the memories of the park, the bird, the sunset guide her hand. When she opened them, the beginnings of a new piece were taking shape—messy, imperfect, but undeniably hers.

For the first time, Erin felt like she was beginning to reclaim herself, one line at a time.

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