With my eyes closed I can feel the moment all over again. The sound in his voice: icy, broken, scared, and selfish. The thick rage thumping inside my chest as it fought against the sea of pity I did not want to feel. The stagnant silence accompanied by the complete and utter lack of words within my reach. It was over. After battling through our formative years, it was over.

Someday when the dust has settled and our stories have divided further, I will talk about it, but for now, this is not my story to tell. The only thing I can share fully is that there is a hole in my life. I feel it every day. For the last 8 months there has not be one 24-hour period where I haven’t thought of him. Each memory searing like hot coals inside my chest. Honestly, words cannot describe.

One of my incredibly smart friends, who happens to be a phenomenal writer, once told me that there are stories I try to write about but they sound stilted and broken. Perhaps those stories aren’t ready to be told yet. I think that is where I am sitting right now. I am sitting in fear of sharing a broken part of me. But what am I afraid of?

Easy.

I’m afraid that the feeling of loss will never fade. I’m afraid that I will never again dial speed-dial number 3. I’m afraid that it really is over. I am afraid that the dreams that cause me to wake up crying from will never cease. I am afraid that I will always be alone in this sadness and loneliness and that I will never get a proper explanation or closure as to why I was the one singled out to be eliminated.

I am afraid that the cavern in my chest will never fill again and that the echo of loneliness and confusion will forever taint each fond memory I can’t get over.

I am afraid that this story will never be ready to be told and that I will never heal from it and each day will feel the same.