"Bittersweet Sunshine"

Epilogue {Tris' POV}

-o-o-o-

With baited breath, I allowed my fingertips to follow the streaks of sunlight dancing across my stomach, fingering the puckered skin. The scars were smaller now – less noticeable. Revealing shirts and summer dresses were still a challenge; exposing the jagged lines to any person who bothered to look was a frightening prospect. But the scars were a part of my journey. They show where I've been, but do not determine where I have to go. Staring dreamily into the glass, as sunlight streamed in through the open window, I almost laugh.

Displayed proudly behind the mirror, a well-worn map had been sloppily hung with double-sided tape and pins – the edges curled with age and there were splotches of paint and coffee here and there. Where wishful scarlet annotations used to lie, small photographs and souvenirs took their place. Almost every country, every continent. Romantic snapshots of the Eiffel tower; tickets to a boat ride along the river Themes; a wine auction in Verona. All of our adventures.

Buttoning my shirt, I quickly pull my hair back into a knot and scramble for my boots. Across the tiny bedroom, inside of an even tinier apartment, newspaper articles and scrapped typewriter attempts were strewn in heaps on the wooden floorboards. A variety of leafy plants were rustled in the warm breeze as I struggled to reach my journal on the top shelf, groaning over the incessant beeping of car horns and city traffic below.

New York was an entire world away from the provincial town they called home; it was exciting, a whole city filled with opportunities. There, everything seemed possible; anybody could make it, even a small town girl with a dark past and not a clue as to where it was that she belonged. The people were rude, brash and sometimes foul-smelling, but that was ok; I was never really alone.

Scooping up a discarded mug of cold, bitter coffee with one hand, I attempted to seal an envelope with the other, ducking out of the doorway toward the kitchen. It was just as I had pictured it, holed up in the freezing cold walls of my treehouse – a third floor shoebox apartment, mere blocks away from the Hudson River line. It was a little rough around the edges, just like we were all those years ago, kissing in the surf and climbing trees.

Dropping the chipped mug into the steel sink, I shouldered my purse and held the keys between my teeth, hastily skirting around squeaky clean running shoes and the cherry red heels Christina had neglected to retrieve after visiting last month, twinkly-eyed, alongside her girlfriend. The escort from next door offered a sheepish smile as he ushered his client into the hallway, shoes in hand and dress severely dishevelled. I simply shook my head in amusement and manipulated the rusty key into the lock. If it wasn't moaning and groaning from the left that roused us awake most nights, it was the loud music and constant partying of college students on the right. Though, we certainly had our fair share of noisy nights.

Unwilling to brave the filthy elevator, I took the narrow flights of stairs, barely pausing to wobble a little in my heels. If there was one day that I couldn't possibly be a moment late for, it would be this one – the meeting with the editor had to go without a hitch if I stood any chance at being published. After all, I had not travelled all this way to run coffee and check facts. The struggling, the arguing… it all had to be worthwhile. It just had to be.

The lobby itself was completely deserted – even the abrupt man behind the front desk was dozing silently, propped up by his elbow. Pausing just before the slightly dirty door, I ran my finger along the sharp crease of the letter. It was one of many I had sent before, but each time I slipped it in for posting, nerves encased any lingering logic. She enjoyed receiving the letters; not many other women in the penitentiary had the same luxuries. They were brief, often too formal – and perhaps she didn't deserve to hear from me at all – but it was the best that I could do.

Upon her release, a small number of months from now, perhaps forgiveness may come easier. For right now, however, the letters were enough. In the seven years since their trial, when I stood before the judge and the jury in floods of tears, we had exchanged merely a dozen letters. Apologies on her part, mostly, and acknowledgement on mine. I was never exactly the compassionate type, but I'm trying. That had to count for something, right?

Ring glistening in the light, I shook my head free of thoughts and turned away, the letter now safely tucked away for a first class delivery. The air was warm and slightly sticky and I smiled to myself, suddenly aching for a milkshake and a flirtatious game of teenage footsie beneath the diner's polished tables. Settling instead for a bottle of water and a hurry to make the next train. The newspaper was a good distance away from the apartment, so relying on the subway was the cheapest and – often – the most reliable form of transport. The brushing of shoulders and leering men was something I had to become accustomed to, though even now, after years of living in the city, I found myself flinching at the slightest of touch from a stranger.

Right on time, to the very second, I was joined in my descent into the station. Decked out in his usual thick framed glasses and crisp blue blazer, he smiled shyly and ruffled his cornflower hair, badly attempting to balance a croissant and a stack of scruffy papers written by his class of fourth-graders. Taking his love for knowledge to one of the city's many elementary schools, Will taught his students wacky science experiments and daft poems. Often, I struggled to remember him as the timid boy that sat with me beside the river, sharing his stack of literary treasures in the sunshine. He had been there for as long as I could remember – sat behind me at the trial squeezing my shoulder, studying for finals, dancing awkwardly at our graduation celebration.

"Good morning," I greeted him eventually, pushing through the crowd of early commuters tenderly cradling cups of coffee and yawning. He barely batted an eyelid, sleepily following me to the platform. "You look awful," I laugh, inspecting the dark rings beneath his emerald eyes. My mouth curls into a knowing smirk as I spot the hickey barely hidden beneath his collar. "Looks like someone didn't get much sleep at all."

Adjusting his collar, anxiously, he scowled half-heartedly. "Shut up."

His fleeting summer romance with Christina barely made it into the first semester of senior year; while he was determined to study hard and make it to college, she was more involved in her new cheer endeavours. After a few heated arguments and public scenes, their relationship drew to a sharp close. As far as we all knew, his love life had been entirely ineffective ever since – but judging by the mark on his neck, the faint smell of perfume and a swollen look to his lips, he had been keeping a few dirty secrets of his own.

"It's nothing," he added after a moment, flushing scarlet. "Just… a little, well er- fun?"

Tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, I touch his elbow briefly. "Will, you deserve to be happy. I know you – you don't do fun. Bring her along tomorrow night – it'll be cool."

"Cool?" He echoes, a twinkle in his eye just thinking about it. "Right. I don't want to drive her away for good by forcing her to sit through the chuckle-brothers routine while Zeke and Uriah spill a bunch of embarrassing stories about me back in junior year. And don't get me started on Christina – she'd practically maul her for information-,"

"Seems you've put a lot of thought into something that is only a bit of fun," I tease, unable to conceal a laugh when he blushes a few shades darker. "Look – just think about it, ok? Any girl who could divert your attention away from a book is somebody that I would like to meet. Just take a chance! What could go wrong?"

Will snorts and pushes his glasses further along his nose as we prepare to separate for our platforms. "Have you met Zeke and Uriah? Besides, not all of us are so fortunate to marry our high school sweetheart-,"

I slip between the closing doors of the train before he could finish, and I stick my tongue out childishly before we take off into the darkness. Hurtling away from the platform, I watch Will wave with a lopsided grin, turning away to navigate the underground labyrinth. Despite seeing him for a couple minutes each morning, it just didn't feel the same. It had been months since returning home to Newport for Hanna's birthday celebrations. Months since we had all been together.

Settling into a vacant seat, squashed uncomfortably between an elderly gentlemen in tweed and a businessman in an expensive suit, I glance at the ring that embraces my skin. His own hands had shaken as he slipped it onto my frostbitten finger, snowflakes in our hair and scattered across our cheeks. It was simple – a quiet, tender suggestion out on the tiny balcony of our city apartment, wrapped in blankets and watching the first snowfall the city had seen that year. There was no fireworks, no grand gesture or large bouquet of roses; it was sweet and sincere, a kiss on the nose and a small satin box stashed away in the pocket of his old sweatpants. We had kissed there in the snow, caught up in our blankets. As if we were the only things that existed, and after months and months apart while Tobias was away constructing his own manuscript, it certainly felt that way.

It seemed so absurd. The plan I had formulated was so particular, so certain; to get out of that dead-end town and escape the shadows that had clasped their fingers around my throat. I'd find an apartment somewhere, as far away from home as possible, with no ties to the hell that I was living. Quite frankly, it was almost laughable how much had changed in just a single summer. He made me feel again. And I could never repay such a debt; without his understanding, his kindness, I would be still stuck in that old crumbling treehouse, or worse – dead.

Max would always be a part of my life, but not in the same way. His cruelty taught me to be kind; his darkness taught me to find the light in bad situations; his ridicule of my dreams taught me to fight that much harder to achieve them. He was a ghost of the past. I defeated my demons, used all of my energy to stand up for myself. But I had help. There are kids still out there suffocating in their own homes, tortured with bruises and groping hands, who will never be as fortunate as I was to discover a way out. There are plenty of Max's – ones that will never be punished or caught or locked away. And that is the biggest injustice of all.

I deserve to live. I've chased my dreams, poured blood, sweat and tears into every article and every column, I've fallen in love and stood up for what I believed in. The marks on my skin do not rule my world; I do. I've crawled through the worst parts of my life and emerged on the other side, bruised but not broken.

Hugging my journal to my chest, my hair fluttering gently against the smooth skin of my neck, I murmur a promise to myself. Words that only Tobias speaks softly into my ear before we sleep and as we connect with tangled limbs and soft moans, his minty breath hot against my ear as he twirls my ponytail between his fingertips. Only this time, I understand. I mean it.

"You're worth it. I love you."

xxxx