Live A Little

Epilogue

Alora's P.O.V

We didn't leave the hospital for another week.
Elias needed every moment of rest, and I needed every moment just to believe it wasn't a dream.

Sometimes, I'd wake up in the stiff recliner beside his bed and stare at him for long minutes, terrified he'd slip back into that unreachable place. But he never did. His eyes would open, tired but sure, and he'd whisper my name like it was the only word he remembered.

"Alora."
And every time, my heart learned how to breathe again.

We didn't talk about everything right away. The weight of the missing years, of my pain and his silence, hung heavy in the air. But we didn't need to say it all at once.

Instead, we talked about little things.

How the hospital coffee still tasted like mud.
How his hair had grown out and he hated it.
How I never stopped visiting.
How I kept my promise, even when he almost didn't.

One morning, he asked me, "Did you forgive her?"
I didn't need to ask who he meant.

I nodded slowly. "I don't know if it's forgiveness. But I stopped holding her ghost like a weapon."
He reached for my hand. "Then you're stronger than you think."

I used to believe that healing would feel like a light switch. That one day, I'd just be okay.

But it isn't like that.

Healing is waking up and choosing love again, even when your hands still shake from what they held.
It's saying goodbye to ghosts, not because they deserve it—but because you do.
It's standing in the wreckage of your life, hand in hand with the person who crawled through hell with you, and saying: This is ours now.

Not perfect.
Not painless.
But ours.

And for the first time in a long, long time—
That's enough.

Dad walks in, balancing a tray of food with his usual quiet grace. The smell of grilled cheese and tomato soup fills the room like comfort itself. I smile at him—small, but real. He sets the tray down on the table and meets my eyes with that same steady look he's always given me, the one that says you're safe now even when the world outside is chaos.

Dad has been the one to hold me through all of this—through the sleepless nights, the moments when I forgot how to breathe, the ache of waiting. And honestly, there's nothing in the world I need more than one of his hugs.

"You okay, kiddo?" he asks, voice low and warm, as if he already knows the answer but needs to hear it anyway.

I nod. "Getting there," I murmur.

His smile deepens just a bit before he ruffles my hair. "That's all I need to hear."

Before I can say anything else, the door creaks open again—and chaos follows.

Bruno is the first one in, followed closely by the others. They're loud, messy, and impossible to ignore. I used to think I'd always be alone, that family was a word meant for someone else. But now? Now I have brothers. Actual brothers.

Bruno tosses himself dramatically onto the couch, sending a cushion flying. "We come bearing emotional support and snacks," he announces, grinning like the troublemaker he is.

Luca enters with a lopsided cake and says, "Don't ask if we baked it. Just pretend we did."

Alex holds up a bouquet of slightly-wilted flowers. "Florist gave us a discount because they looked 'emotionally complex.' Thought that was fitting."