Evie James

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Introduction

A memoir in art, love, and resurrection. When Trinity meets Travis, it feels like fate on two wheels — a love that burns hot, reckless, and wild enough to light up every dark corner she’s ever tried to hide. But fire doesn’t stay where it’s told. When the blaze dies, she’s left standing in the ashes of what could’ve been — and what it cost her to believe in it. Then comes Danny: calm, kind, a tide pulling her toward safety. With him, she finds steadiness, laughter, and a

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If you’ve ever…

…loved someone who couldn’t stay

…held everything together alone

…started again anyway

Then this story is for you.

Not the polished version. The real one.

The nights, the laughter, the tears.

Because we all walk through fire and water. And we all find air in the end.

She isn’t who survived the storm — she’s who grew through it. 

Once she thought love was fire or tide, but it was always the earth beneath her feet — steady, ancient, alive. 

Now she walks toward the light not to escape the past, but to honour it. 

Every scar, every brushstroke, every breath — proof that creation is what remains when destruction has had its say.

Maybe that’s what soulmates really are,
not the ones who stay,
but the ones who arrive like a whisper in the dark,
fleeting but perfectly timed,
reminding you of the person you were before the world demanded otherwise.
They don’t build a life beside you —
they remind you how to live yours.

I said goodbye.
No anger. No blame. Just quiet love. The kind that stops asking to be understood.

I thought I was sending closure.
He saw a goodbye.
I saw the last trace of myself still reaching.

He said goodbye that night.
I said goodbye the next morning.

For a long time, I thought he was the fire. Wild, magnetic, impossible to hold.
But looking back, I see it now.
He was the smoke.
I was the flame.

He drew warmth from me, called it love, then feared the burn.
And I mistook his shadows for depth.

This poem wasn’t written to forgive him.
It was written to remember myself.

Come back as a man who has tasted fire and no longer runs. 🔥

This one was drawn in the lead up to Mum’s heart surgery.
It started as a way to breathe through the waiting, and became something else entirely.

He’s the cave — dark, hollow, comfortable in his own shadow, avoiding the world.

I’m the woman standing in the light..

Roots stretched and tangled beneath us.
Mine warm him. His drain me.
And still, I stay.
Holding us both up because that’s what love was, self-erasure dressed as devotion.

Looking at it now, I see the truth I couldn’t then:
The light wasn’t his to give. It was mine all along.

This piece was written the morning after Gravity. When the rain had dried but the ache hadn’t.

It isn’t about a man. It’s about a scent, a trace, a ghost that lingers in the ribs long after reason leaves.

Love as a fragrance: transient, impermanent, doomed... but beautiful in its fade.

I wrote it like a confession and drew over it like a prayer.

Sometimes the only way to stop someone hurting you,
is to turn the pain into art.

It was gravity.

Even after the loss, the silence, the exhaustion, I still wanted to believe that two people who’d broken each other could learn to be soft again.

So when he texted, I said yes.
And somehow, we ended up in Fremantle: barefoot in the rain, silk and laughter under the fairy lights.

He sketched me that night. Quick lines, careful eyes. Like he was trying to capture me before I disappeared.

We found the car the next morning, ten metres from where we started.

A perfect loop.

The kind of love that never moves forward, but only circles back… until you’re too dizzy to tell the difference between forgiveness and gravity.

Back home, I slept. Then I drew.

First the mastiff curled in front of a fire, a teddy under his paw. Because he deserved warmth in his next life.

Then the cabin, the photo of him kissing my cheek at sunrise after night shift. I rebuilt it in my sketch: timber, ivy, amber windows glowing like a promise.

Above it all, I drew his eyes.
Watching over it. Over us.

I didn’t realise until I finished that I’d drawn him a home. The one he never got to stay in.

“In another life,” the song said.
Maybe I could make your heart beat again.

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Evie James

Start Here

Introduction

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Follow my Art