I tried so hard to believe him.
But something broke that I couldn't name.
The days blurred together.
Garrett went back to work—he had to, he'd already taken a week off, and the bills didn't stop just because our world had ended. He moved through life like nothing had changed. Made me coffee in the morning. Came home with flowers. Looked at me like I was still his whole world.
And every bit of his love felt like a weight I couldn't carry.
Why aren't you grieving? I wanted to scream. Why are you okay while I'm dying inside?
I didn't say it. I couldn't explain what I didn't understand myself.
The depression crept in like fog.
I stopped writing because I couldn't find the words. Couldn't find the point. Stopped eating regular meals. Stopped sleeping through the night. Moved through my days like a ghost in my own life, going through motions without feeling any of them.
Garrett noticed. Of course, he noticed.
He started coming home earlier, checking on me, suggesting walks, movies, and dinner with friends. Everything he did was kind. Patient. Loving.
Everything he did made me feel worse.
I'm broken, I thought. And he doesn't see it. He's trying to love someone who doesn't exist anymore.
Two months after. Sunday morning.
Garrett wrapped his hands around his coffee cup—careful, hopeful—and said:
"I was thinking... maybe we could start talking about the wedding again? Not right away, but just—starting to think about it. When you're ready."
Something in me snapped.
"How can you think about that?" My voice came out raw. "How can you just... move on? Like nothing happened?"
"I'm not moving on." His face was confused, hurt. "I'm trying to move forward. With you."
"While I'm—" I couldn't finish. Couldn't say while I'm still mourning our baby. Couldn't admit that his normalcy felt like betrayal, that his love felt like pressure, that being around him reminded me of everything we'd lost.
He reached for me. I flinched away.
The hurt in his eyes almost broke me.
"I need space." The words scraped out of my throat like broken glass.
"Sloane—"
"I'm not well, Garrett." I was crying now. Ugly crying, the kind I'd been holding back for months. "I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't—I can't keep dragging you down with me. You deserve better than this. Than me."
"You're not dragging me anywhere." He moved toward me again, slowly, like I was something fragile that might shatter. "I want to be here. Let me be here."
"I know you do." The words were barely a whisper. "That's why I have to go."
He held me while I cried. Even then. Even when I was pushing him away, even when I was breaking both our hearts.
He held me like I was precious. Like I was worth holding onto.
"Okay," he said finally. His voice was steady, but I could hear it cracking underneath. "If you need time, I'll give you time. But I'll be here. Waiting. However long it takes."
