I’d written this so long ago, yet it feels as if it were yesterday. I’d poured my soul into these pages. Bled into them. Screamed for help with a pen in my hand and never even realized what I was doing.
I thought I was writing fiction. I thought I was escaping. But no. I was documenting my own haunted, desperate spiral in the darkness.
I continue skimming until I find it—right near the end of Book Two. The last paragraph I ever wrote.
Charlie couldn’t carry it anymore. He was ready to give in. To surrender. He was letting go. Of everything.
It hits me like a knife to the heart, sending me back in time until my hands shake. For a long moment, it’s as if I’m not only crafting these words but holding the gun, and my heart shatters.
How did I not see it before? It’s unmistakable how much I’d put myself into my character. Charlie believed he had nothing left. Convinced himself that the army, his friends, and even his family had turned their backs on him or disappeared. The pressure of the war was too much. He had no hope. No anchors to get him through the worst battle of his life.
Except... he did.
Charlie had a love interest, Volka, who was willing to give up her life to fight for his cause. And he even had two friends who kept showing up. He just couldn’t see it, blinded by what was happening in the world around him.
I was blinded too, by grief. The depth of it is hitting me all over again, threatening to swallow me whole. I set the pages aside, unsure of what to do.
I’d written that paragraph when I didn’t just want to quit the story, I wanted to quiteverything. I’d given up, buried my will to live just as Charlie had buried his. And instead of crawling out, I’d hidden the pages in the corner, like I was trying to smother Charlie’s voice. Like I was afraid.
Maybe deep down I knew he was leading me to the end. I was weeks away from pulling the trigger to end my life. I had a date in mind. A plan. Even the means. But then something shifted inside me, fragile and half-alive, but it was there. It reawakened. The emptiness became… something else. I found a will to keep going.
I just didn’t realize I hadn’t yetmoved.I was stuck. Dormant. My will to live was shallow and barely surviving. Like a plant taking root in a sidewalk.
It’s no wonder I haven’t been able to finish his story. I wasn’t ready yet. I had to help myself first. I see that now.
I brush a hand over the paper, feeling deeply connected to the story again. Charlie will get his happy ending someday, but first I need to get mine. It’ll be a battle ahead, but I’m determined to get through it.
I set the manuscript on the edge of my dresser where I can see it, unburied. Hopefully it’ll be an anchor in the weeks to come.
When I’m ready, Charlie and I will try again.
20
MILES
Ifold the blanket carefully, pressing the edges in so it fits snug in the green cardboard box. It had taken about ten tries to get it to fit this way, so that our smiles were the first thing Jordan would see when he opens the box. It looks perfect.
My chest aches as I touch Jordan’s face on the soft material. It’s my favorite picture of us. Jordan is caught mid-laugh, his dark eyes half-closed, and the sun is painting his cheekbones in a beautiful golden hue. His hair is loose too, blowing around my arm.
He’s gorgeous.
The blanket smells like me. Or at least, the version of me that’s been clinging to it for the past month. I’ve slept with it, cuddled it, wore it around the entire hotel as I walked to the snack shop or to change my laundry. Screw with the others think. This was my robe of honor, and I displayed our love proudly!
I’ve pulled it around me so many times that one end is slightly distorted, like I was trying to wraphimaround me. I get worried every time I see it. He won’t notice, right?
I thought the gift would be romantic and sweet as we adjusted to being apart again. But now, letting go of it hurts. I don’t want to. It’s been my main source of comfort for weeks.
“It’s not yours,” I chide myself. “You didn’t buy it for you.”
On top of the blanket, I add a pack of Whoppers, some Mike and Ikes, Red Vines, Hot Tamales, and salted cashews. I make a face at those. Who likes cashews? He once said Hot Tamales made him feel “fierce and awake,” and I felt that fitting for his battle against depression.
I add the self-care stuff Sophie convinced me to buy, even though I haven’t a clue what any of it is. Some kind of rejuvenating face mask, a stress balm, and eucalyptus body spray? Whatever. I also bought him a new notebook and pens with weird little affirmations on the side.You’ve got this. Write it out. Don’t punch anyone today.
Everything is covered in fun, rainbow-colored dick stickers too, because Jordan needs dick stickers. To finish the box off, I tuck in the last item: a long, green, vibrating dildo and a handwritten note to go with it:In case the need arises… literally.
With everything tucked away, I include the card I spent way too long filling out. Two hours and all I got was, “Even in the dark, you deserve comfort. I love you.”
Seriously? That’s all I can think of to encourage my boyfriend when he’s going through hell? What is wrong with me?
