Chapter 7: Pieces of Her, Reclaimed

For the first time in days, Evelyn didn’t feel like she was being chased by ghosts.

She walked through the school halls not as the bride-to-be who once stood on the edge of death, but as a girl on the edge of rediscovery.

It was strange—how everything looked the same, yet felt so different.

The lockers hadn’t moved. The paint still peeled in that one corner near the music room. Students still shuffled in lazy lines, carrying lives they hadn’t yet ruined. And yet, she was different.

After her confrontation with Nathaniel and the long-overdue heart-to-heart with Clara, Evelyn realized something vital: revenge was powerful—but rebuilding herself was more.

So she made a list.

Not of enemies.

Of herself.

Things she used to love. Things she’d abandoned while being molded into someone else's dream girl.

Art. Literature. Photography. Theater. Dance.

Passions Nathaniel once called “cute distractions.”

Well, cute distractions were about to become her entire life.

She stood in front of the bulletin board outside the student lounge, staring at the rainbow chaos of club flyers. One caught her eye:

“Lit & Ink Club – Thursdays After School. Bring your stories. Leave your fears.”

That’s where she’d start.

She remembered how much she used to write—short poems scribbled in margins, half-finished stories tucked between her textbooks. She used to dream of being a novelist before her world narrowed into dress fittings and gala invites.

Evelyn tore off the tab and tucked it into her notebook. Then her eyes landed on another flyer:

“Photography Club – Explore the world through a different lens. Tuesdays 4 PM.”

She smiled.

Why not both?

The photography club room was smaller than she remembered. Dusty light filtered in through wide, tall windows. A few students were already there, laughing as they played with vintage cameras and compared edits on their laptops.

The club president, Jonah, was a soft-spoken guy with messy curls and ink-stained fingers. He greeted her with a quick nod and a genuine smile.

“Evelyn Monroe, right? Surprised to see you here.”

She raised a brow. “Why?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Figured you were more... social scene, not shutter scene.”

She smiled, not offended. “Not anymore.”

Jonah handed her an old Canon. “Then welcome back to the real world.”

They went out that afternoon to capture “quiet beauty.” Jonah’s assignment for the day.

Evelyn found herself drawn to shadows. To things that were half-seen. A cat lounging on a fire escape. A child’s chalk drawing half-washed away by rain. A girl staring out a window, unaware she was being framed by light.

Click. Click. Click.

Each photo felt like reclaiming a part of herself. Each image, a reminder that she didn’t need Nathaniel’s approval to see beauty—or be it.

Thursday came fast.

The Lit & Ink Club met in the library’s old wing. Dim lights, beanbags, and stacks of worn-out journals filled the room. A girl with a nose ring passed her a notebook. “We write. We share. We don’t judge.”

Evelyn hesitated. Then she sat down, flipped open the book, and wrote:

She died at the altar, but no one saw the blood.

They only saw lace.

Now she walks with memory as her weapon, and love as a risk she might never take again.

The room was quiet. No one laughed. Instead, someone whispered, “Damn. That’s... haunting.”

For once, Evelyn didn’t shrink back. She let them feel it.

After the meeting, she lingered.

One of the members—Jules—approached her. “That piece... was that a story, or...?”

Evelyn smiled faintly. “Both.”

Jules didn’t pry. She just nodded. “Well, you’ve got a seat in our circle now.”

That night, Evelyn stared at her ceiling, her heart light in a way it hadn’t been in ages.

She’d spent so long building walls, defending herself from the past. She’d forgotten how good it felt to create. To be.

Friday came, and with it, the whispers.

Apparently, Nathaniel had seen her in photography club. Someone said he’d made a comment about “artsy girls and their daddy issues.” Others said he was “rebranding his heartbreak.”

Evelyn didn’t care.

She passed him in the hallway and didn’t flinch. When he reached out to touch her arm, she turned without stopping.

She was done explaining herself to people who didn’t want to know her soul.

And slowly, the other students began to see it too.

Not Evelyn the ex. Not Evelyn the bride.

But Evelyn—the girl with fire in her pen, a lens in her hand, and a story waiting to be rewritten.