Page 89 of Puck Me Back to Life

I grab the edge of my desk. My breathing becomes uneven.

I was doing okay.

For one night.

For one morning.

I was okay.

The panic arrives so fast it steals the breath from my lungs. I sink into the desk chair before my knees can give out. My hands shake. The familiar dread spreads through my chest.

The anniversary means interviews.

Articles.

Highlights.

Comment sections.

The video.

There is always someone who reposts the video.

The room is quiet but I can already hear the questions.

How are you doing two years later?

How do you carry something like that?

Have you forgiven yourself?

The answer—the real answer— is always the same.

I haven't.

I don't know if I ever will.

My breathing becomes shallow. I lower myself to the floor before I can fall there. The cool wood presses against my back.

Cleveland appears at the end of the hallway, watching me cautiously. Smart cat. He knows something is wrong.

I drag a hand through my hair. This is why I don't let myself feel good. This is why I don't trust it.

Because every time I think I've escaped it, even for a little while, something reminds me that I haven't.

I spent the night laughing with Ash.

I slept.

I woke up feeling lighter than I have in months.

For a few hours, I felt almost normal.

And now all it takes is one date on a calendar to drag me right back here. The worst part is realizing how quickly I had started depending on that feeling. On Ash. On the quiet he creates in my head.

Now I'm sitting on my kitchen floor, staring at nothing, because William's ghost has found me again.

And no matter how far my life moves forward, no matter how many years pass, I suddenly know exactly what terrifies me most.