Forever.
Family.
Things I used to imagine for myself, maybe even with Will. Now all I have is the ghost of that hope, echoing in my chest like a laugh I’ll never hear again.
By the time I get to my truck, I’m trembling. Not with jealousy. Not even with grief. But with emptiness. Because at some point, I stopped expecting anything good to stay.
I don’t drive home right away. I sit in the truck, hands clenched around the steering wheel, breathing like I just ran miles when I haven’t moved an inch. The weight pressing down on my chest isn’t new, but today it feels heavier. Like grief and shame and bitterness all braided into one, dragging me under.
I stare out the windshield for what feels like hours, eyes dry, heart hollow.
Then I go home.
I lock the door behind me. Don’t bother turning on any lights.
I drop my keys in the bowl by the door. Kick off my boots. Shrug out of my jacket. Walk past the living room window withthe curtain that’s been closed for months. And then I stand in the middle of my kitchen and realize I don’t know what to do.
There’s no one to check on me.
No one waiting to see if I made it home safe.
No arms. No voice. No Will.
Just the sound of the refrigerator humming and the emptiness gnawing at the edge of everything.
I pour a glass of water and set it on the counter.
Then I sit on the kitchen floor and stare at it.
And that’s when it hits me.
The tears come fast, ugly, and unexpected. No slow trickle, no cinematic buildup. Just a violent, shaking storm of sobs that rip through me like a body remembering it has limits.
I press my forehead to my knees and cry so hard I forget how to breathe.
Because I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I’m okay.
Tired of watching people fall in love while I fall apart.
Tired of being the one who feels everything while the people I love find new ways to leave.
And most of all?—
I’m tired of missing someone who didn’t choose me.
I stay on the floor until the tears slow and the shaking stops. My cheeks are sticky. My throat burns.
The glass of water still sits untouched on the counter.
And I realize, in the deepest, darkest corner of my chest I don’t know how to climb out of this. Not this time.
I don't know how long I sit there on the kitchen floor.
Eventually, I get up. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Pretend I’m a person again.
The days blur together after that.
