The anniversary of their breakup came quietly.

Jada marked it with a walk along the lake, not a breakdown. Not a longing ache. Just breathe in, breathe out, gratitude.

It had been a year of unraveling and remembering. Of grieving what was and learning what could be.

She sat on a bench by the water, watching the waves flick sunlight back at the sky. She thought of Micah — not with bitterness or even sorrow. Just a nod to what they’d shared.

He had messaged once more. A thank you. A wish for her peace.

She hadn’t replied.

Not out of coldness.

But because she no longer needed to respond to everything that once defined her.

Later that day, she met Naomi at their favorite rooftop spot. They clinked glasses.

“To you,” Naomi said, “finally living like your heart’s not on a leash.”

Jada laughed. “To me.”

That night, back home, she lit a candle and pulled out a fresh journal. The first page was blank. It used to scare her — the idea of starting again. Now it thrilled her.

She wrote:

This story doesn’t end with love found or lost.
It ends with me — walking, breathing, becoming.
I’m not waiting anymore. I’m living.

She didn’t need to prove anything.

Not to Micah.

Not to her father.

Not to the ghosts of the girl she used to be.

She was done waiting for someone to give her permission to be whole.

She already was.