I nod slowly, thinking about the pages where she professed her love to me.
“I want you to do the same,” she insists. “Write to her.”
I blink at her blankly. “You want me to… What? Write her a letter and pretend she can read it?”
“Yes and no. I want you to express what you haven’t allowed yourself to say out loud. Grief needs a language. Right now, it’s sitting inside you like a storm with no outlet. Writing to her could give it all somewhere to go.”
“It feels…” I hesitate. “Pathetic.”
“It feels vulnerable,” she corrects gently. “There is a difference.”
I rub a hand over my jaw and ask quietly, “What happens if it makes it worse? What if I open something I can’t handle? Can’t close?”
Dr. Patel meets my hesitant stare with her steady one. “It’s already open, Easton. You’re just trying to hold that door shut with every bit of your strength.”
The imagery hits hard, and we sit in silence for a while.
“I’m not asking you to write something polished or profound,” she adds. “Just be honest. You miss her. You’re angry. You’re lost. Write that. Let her be part of your healing instead of something you’re trying bury or outrun.”
“I’ll try.”
“And that’s all I’m asking.”
Inside my room, the air is still, and my bed is neatly made. I lift the photograph of Rosie as I turn from the bedside table and stare at her beautiful face. “I’m supposed to write to you.”
I pull the journal out of the drawer. The leather cover is worn, the edges softened from use. After opening it carefully, my fingers brush over her handwriting, noting the ink pressed deeper on certain words when she was emotional. Islip the pen from the elastic loop on the cover and sit cross-legged on the bed, the journal spread wide in front of me.
I stare at the blank page. My mind is loud, but none of the thoughts come together neatly enough to form sentences. I tap the pen lightly against the paper.
Grief needs a language… Not polished or profound…
“Just honest.”
My hand trembles slightly as I lower the pen to the page.
Dear Rosie,
This feels so ridiculous.
I swallow hard and force myself to keep going.
It’s been thirty days since my last drink. I don’t know whether that would make you proud or worried. Probably a little bit of both.
I pause, staring at the ink beginning to sprawl across the page. It’s not as neat as Rosie’s handwriting, but there is something cathartic about this.
I miss you, dreamer.
The simplicity of those four words blurs my vision.
I miss you in ways that don’t fit into sentences. I miss the sound of your laugh from the kitchen. I miss the way you stole the blankets and then denied it with a straight face. I miss the way you said my name.
My chest aches, and I can feel the tears coming, but I don’t stop.
I miss how you curled into my body when we fell asleep at night. I miss the life we were going to have. The future we dreamed of and the home we were going to fill. The kids we were going to have.
I thought we had time. God, Rosie… I thought we had a lifetime.
A tear runs down my cheek and drops onto the page, smudging the ink.
