Love, Rewritten:(A Girls’ Love Story).

Elara hadn't slept well. Not because of nightmares, but because her dreams had been too soft, too beautiful, and too cruel. In them, Rowan had kissed her beneath a golden sky, whispering a promise neither of them could keep. They had held hands on a bridge made of stars. They had danced barefoot in the rain. But when Elara opened her eyes, there was only sunlight and silence.

She sat up in bed, her heart beating too fast. The pen was still there on the nightstand, its silver shimmer dulled. It hadn't written anything new overnight. Yet something in her bones told her the magic was not done with her.

She walked to the mirror, staring at her reflection. Her eyes looked different. Not just tired but haunted. As if some part of her knew the truth, even if the rest of her refused to face it.

Downstairs, she found Aunt Moira humming in the kitchen.

"Sleep well?" Moira asked.

Elara hesitated. "I dreamed of Rowan."

Moira's stirring spoon paused mid-air. "Good dreams?"

"Yes," Elara said. "Which makes them worse."

Moira gave her a long look. "Sometimes, dreams remember what we've chosen to forget."

That struck something deep. Elara blinked, then nodded. "I'll be at the bookstore."

At Quill & Charm, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and lavender. Elara ran her fingers across the book spines, but her mind wasn't on them. Every aisle reminded her of Rowan, how they used to sneak notes between pages, how Rowan had kissed her behind the mystery section.

She paused by the counter, where a worn journal sat. It hadn't been there yesterday.

Frowning, Elara opened it.

The pages were blank.

Until they weren't.

Right before her eyes, ink began to blossom like spilled wine.

> You remember more when you sleep, don't you?

Her heart stuttered. "What are you?" she whispered.

The pen—her pen lay in the drawer below, unmoved. But the journal was writing back.

> You erased her. But memory is not obedience. Magic frays. And love... resists.

Elara snapped the journal shut, her hands trembling.

A second later, the bell above the door chimed.

Rowan.

She looked unsure, as always now like every time she stepped into Elara's orbit, her instincts screamed that something was missing.

"Hi," Rowan said softly.

"Hey," Elara said, voice catching.

"I—I had a weird dream. About this place. About you."

Elara froze.

"I don't remember what happened in the dream exactly," Rowan continued, "but I woke up crying."

Elara's throat closed up. "Dreams are just static," she lied.

But Rowan tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Are they?"

Elara couldn't do this. Not with the journal writing truths in her face. Not with magic unraveling the careful surgery she'd done to her heart.

"I found something," she said instead. "Upstairs. A weird journal. I think... I think it's connected to the pen."

Rowan frowned. "The pen that writes on its own?"

Elara hesitated. "Yes. Sort of. It's complicated."

"Let me see it."

Together, they climbed to the small attic above the shop, where Elara had stashed the journal.

She opened it.

The page was blank again.

Rowan raised an eyebrow. "Did you write anything in here?"

"No."

"Then what's it supposed to do?"

Elara shook her head, frustrated. "It—It was writing on its own earlier. I swear it."

"Maybe it only writes when you're alone."

Rowan's voice was gentle, but the words cut deep. Because that's what Elara had done, wasn't it? Chosen to be alone. Chosen a clean slate over messy, beautiful truth.

Rowan touched the journal and flipped a page.

There, at the top, was a fresh sentence.

> She still dreams of you.

Rowan blinked. "Okay. That's... weird."

Elara sat down heavily. "It knows. Whatever magic this is... it remembers what I tried to forget."

Rowan didn't move for a long time. Then she sat beside Elara, close but not quite touching.

"Who did I used to be to you?" she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

Elara closed her eyes.

"Everything," she breathed.

That night, Elara dreamt again.

But this time, it wasn't a fantasy.

She and Rowan were sitting in the backseat of a car, rain streaking the windows. They were laughing. Rowan was tracing Elara's palm like it was scripture.

"I'll love you even if you forget," dream-Rowan said.

Elara woke with tears in her eyes.

Downstairs, the journal lay open.

> You can erase ink. Not ghosts.

And Elara knew.

The past was not gone.

It was coming back.

Word by word. Dream by dream.

And it wouldn't stop until she faced it.