My heartache has made me sick. It sits in my stomach like a stone. It burns in my throat when I try to speak your name. I don’t sleep, not really. And when I do, I dream of you. And every morning I wake up reaching for you. And every morning, I remember you’re not there.
I don’t know how to move forward without you.
I don’t want to.
Sam…
I love you.
With every aching, stubborn, fractured piece of me.
Always,
Charlie
“Charlotte,” Tish whispers gently, crouching beside where I’m curled on the couch. “You have to stop this. It’s not healthy.”
I lift my gaze to meet hers, eyes swollen and rimmed in red. I haven’t cried today, but the tears are never far.
“I don’t know how to stop,” I rasp.
Her hand tightens around mine. “Then let’s start small.First step? You’re going to see a doctor. This bug you’ve had for days? I don’t like it.”
I nod faintly as another wave of nausea swells through my gut. It’s been like this all week. Vomiting, dizziness, zero appetite. Even the smell of coffee makes me gag now. I keep telling myself it’s just the stress, the sadness. That it’s all in my head.
But when I close my eyes to sleep, I see him. His eyes. His hands. His mouth saying darlin’ like it still means something.
Getting dressed feels like climbing a mountain. I shuffle to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and tie my hair into a limp bun. I avoid the mirror but catch a glimpse anyway. The woman looking back at me is unfamiliar. Pale. Hollow. Haunted.
I throw on a t-shirt and leggings that hang too loose on my normally curvy frame and make my way to the living room, where Tish is waiting.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod, even though I’m not.
Outside, the sun is sharp and blinding. It glares off cars and concrete, making my temples throb. The usual morning traffic hum feels too loud, too fast, like the world is racing ahead while I’m stuck in place.
Tish unlocks her car, and I slide in silently. She doesn’t push me to talk. She just drives, her hand occasionally reaching over to squeeze mine.
We pull into a busy clinic. Inside, the air smells like sanitizer and tension. Sneezing kids. Exhausted parents. People coughing into their elbows. We sit on cracked vinyl chairs and wait.
An hour passes. Maybe more.
Finally, “Charlotte Wilson?”
I blink up at the nurse. My body feels separate from my brain as I rise.
“That’s me.”
Tish touches my arm. “Want me to come with?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “I got this.”
But I don’t. Not really.
I follow the nurse down a sterile hallway, heart pounding, stomach churning. The nurse checks my blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. I stare at the faded motivational poster on the wall like it holds the answers to my unraveling. It doesn’t.
“How long have you been experiencing the symptoms?” she asks, clicking away at her tablet.
