Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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Trigger Warning: The content here includes depictions of real issues that you may be sensitive to or unwilling to address head-on at this time: death, loss, mental illness, and suicide.
If you or anyone you know has experienced thoughts or actions related to mental health crises or suicide, you can contactthe National Suicide and Crises Lifeline at 988 or visit The National Alliance on Mental Health at www.nami.org.
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Death scratched holes in my heart.
Every day I wake up to a new reality, cold, quiet, and cruel. A piece of me is missing. A piece I'll never get back.
I pushed a sharp exhale up to my ceiling. Sometimes I wished my brain had an off switch. Or my heart had stopped so it wouldn't break with every beat.
Sure, I could've brushed Sam off as mindless, detached sex. But it wasn't, not to me. I hadn't stopped thinking about him. The heat in his eyes, the slick on his skin, his warmth wrapped around me, and the fullness he thrust into me awakened throbs of ache between my legs to tingles of sensitivity.
More than that were the pains in my heart. A different sense of pain nestled between its permanent cracks, and the bitterness of betrayal seeped through my veins like poison. I missed his company, the tiny lift in the corner of his mouth when I teased him, and the unrelenting way he tried to crack open my secrets. I wasn't anyone's problem to fix but if asked to pick a shoulder to cry on, at one point I would've wished for his.
None of these feelings mattered. I was done with Sam Pearson. He was exactly who I always knew he was. A player. A cheat. Being the first guy –fuck, the only guy– I slept with since Nate was insulting.
The mess of words sprawled over my lap offered none of my journaling's usual comforts. Fireworks of ink blots blurred the words one fallen tear after another.
If life is cruel then time is its bitch.
Four weeks early on his third deployment, a different Nathan returned to me. Physically, he walked with a slight limp, but I didn't give a fuck. A feral screech left my throat as I flung myself onto him. Jumping up, I wrapped my arms and legs around his hard body.
