Because I couldn’t face her rage or the world’s noise. I couldn’t even look at my own face in the mirror.
Instead, I slept too much, cried even more, screamed into pillows like some unhinged banshee, and sent god help meso manymessages to Blake.
Desperate ones.
Sad ones.
Bitter ones.
Pathetic ones.
Ones I can’t take back.
No replies.
Just silence.
Friday, I got out of bed.
A small victory.
I showered. Another one.
I even brushed my hair or at least attempted to.
I ate.
Watered the flowers in her garden,hergarden, our little girl’s garden. Her favourites were just starting to bloom. I watched a single daisy uncurl itself, as if it had no idea the world could be cruel.
Then I walked to the corner coffee shop, the one that didn’t serve heartbreak on the side. The one where I could pretend to beokay.
Salted caramel latte. Three shots. Two pumps. Because honestly, this bitch needed a coffee that would slap her in the soul.
Croissant and Cinnamon scroll with cream cheese frosting and freeze-dried raspberries and a peach tea.
Because feelings apparently taste better when drowned in sugar and heart disease.
I sat in the sun at the window seat, the one no one ever asks for but me. Pulled out my black fountain pen and wrote in the journal I now carried like a damn security blanket.
Half of my heart has always been his, and now I’m just laying here in pieces on the floor.
One deep breath. One careful sip.
Then, the app.
That app.
The one I’d been avoiding like a flaming STD or an ex with something to prove.
The icon blinked like a neon sign. I tapped it.
Jesus, take the wheel. What in god’s name was I doing?
To anyone watching, I probably looked like some freshly wounded twenty-something trying to crawl back into the game, an innocent girl lost in a sea of fish emojis and unsolicited dick pics.
But they didn’t see what was real.
They didn’t see the war.
