Kylie and John were the only two people I talked to for the first four months. If Kylie didn’t do what she did back then, I don’t think I would ever move on from Damian’s death. And here I am, broken again, in the same summer house but now she owns it.

She rested her back to the couch, holding her cup of tea and looking down. “Anna, it has been over a month since we had that talk.” She looked at me, she was trying hard to separate herself from being my childhood friend, it was my agent talking now.

“It’s too painful to write about him again.”

“I know, it will forever be hard on all of us.” Kylie grew up with me and Damian back in London. She knew how everything was beyond my control. Way beyond my control. “Writing is your way to move on, Euphoria was the best thing you ever write Anna, We can’t just keep it here and not giving it a chance to live.”

“Kylie…”

“Don’t Kylie me, I love John but for god’s sake Anna, you fell out of love for years! You’re just sad that your life with him came to an end, your vows that you made after Damian didn’t stick for too long.”

I hate how she just knows everything. I was indeed grieving another lost, John is alive, but my John was long gone. Our vows we made at collogue was naïve and pure. Our marriage and our families working together changed the whole dynamic of our relationship. It became like a script we have to follow; rules we must keep to sustain the pure and powerful image of the Lightwoods.

“I wrote it when I was lost, I wrote about Damian, my love, our love… I can’t do it again, trust me I tried.” I really did. Eight years ago, when Kylie brought me here, to escape everything, I found myself lost in grief. I had dreams daily about him, his face never left my soul.

My world shattered. The loss felt like a gaping hole in my heart, a void that seemed impossible to fill. In the first week I was here, I found solace in writing. It became my outlet, a way to cope with the overwhelming emotions that threatened to drown me.

I poured my heart onto the pages, without realizing what I was doing, I created a novel —a grand, epic romance that encapsulated the love me and Damian had shared. I expressed the depths of my grief, the longing, and the profound loss I felt. A tale of love and loss, of shared dreams and shattered hopes. The novel became a tribute to Damian, a way to honor our love and immortalize our story.

It took me three weeks to finally let it go. I remember the day I printed it out was the first time Kylie visited me, I wanted to be alone, grief in my own terms. I couldn’t be around anyone. When she asked me how I was feeling, I told her what I did. She is the only one to ever read Euphoria.

“The book is beyond great! It is a real one, you need this to get out of this shitty mood, just please give it another try, re-edit Euphoria.” She left her cup on the table and stood up. “I’m telling you this as your agent, I want this book done and as your friend, don’t let the Lightwoods ruin your career.”

She left me alone with my thoughts again. I went to the bedroom where I left the draft in the drawer of the nightstand. Thankful for Kylie’s amazing personality and trustful friendship, keeping that copy safe for eight years. Locking the drawer and leaving the only key with me, giving me the choice to do whatever I want to it.

I sighed heavily. My heart is racing, I’m scared to reopen that old wound.

Click… click.

Here it is.

Euphoria.