Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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I don't remember the last time I slept through the night.
Everything blurs together now – half-dreams and sharp wake-ups, the ceiling above me coming into focus while my chest still aches from whatever version of him my mind decided to replay. Sometimes I reach for him before I'm fully awake, my hands brushing against my empty sheets, and the realization hits all over again.
I stay in bed longer than I should. Longer than I ever would have before.
The room feels heavy, as if the air itself is pressing down on me, and the thought of getting up – of showering, getting dressed, pretending I'm fine long enough to make it through the day – feels like more effort than I can manage.
My phone sits untouched on the nightstand. I know I should be looking for jobs, answering emails, doing something that resembles moving forward, but every time I pick it up, I end up staring at the screen without actually seeing it.
So, I put it back down.
Yesterday, I told my mom I'd go into work. Instead, I walked to the beach and sat there for hours, watching the tide roll in and out like it had nowhere else to be. At one point, I found myself wondering how long I could stay under before everything went quiet.
Not because I want to die. Just... because I want a break from thinking.
Will's voice fills the silence anyway.
You're selfish.
You didn't support me.
I don't love you anymore.
I turn onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me, like I can shut it out if I just make myself small enough.
It doesn't work.
It never does.
_____
I'm half-rewatching reruns of Friends when a knock rattles my bedroom door.
I don't move.
If I stay quiet long enough, they'll assume I'm asleep and leave me alone, which feels like the best possible outcome right now. That shadow of feet under the door lingers for a second, then disappears.
Relief settles in slowly – until another knock echoes through the room, louder this time.
"Go away," I mumble into my pillow. "I'm asleep."
The door swings open anyway.
"If you're asleep," Jo says, stepping inside, "how are you answering me?"
I don't bother turning around. "Your incessant knocking woke me up."
"Mm." She shuts the door behind her and crosses the room, arms folding across her chest as she studies me in a way that immediately puts me on edge. "You know what I think?"
