The Love Of My Life

Chapter 15

Maya's POV

When I arrived at the first event, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might echo in the car's quiet. I sat in the back seat momentarily, clutching my bag and staring out at the crowd gathering outside. The energy was palpable, even from here—people chatting, laughing, holding signs, and milling around. It was the kind of scene I'd been a part of dozens of times before, but today felt different. Today, I wasn't sure if I had it in me to face them. I took a deep breath and looked in the mirror, checking my makeup one last time. My smile wasn't quite as bright as it used to be, but it was there. I could work with that. "You've got this," I whispered, grabbing the door handle. When I stepped out, the morning air was crisp and cool, refreshing in a way that made me feel just a little more awake, a little more alive. People started to notice me almost immediately, their faces lighting up as they recognized who I was. "Maya!" someone called, waving me over with a big smile. I waved back, forcing a grin even as my stomach twisted with nerves. A few people approached me right away, eager to shake my hand and talk about how much they admired my sister and our family. Their warmth and enthusiasm were contagious, and before long, I felt some of my tension start to melt away. As I moved through the crowd, I realized how much I'd missed this part of campaigning—the connection, the stories, the genuine conversations with people who cared about making a difference. One woman told me how much Kamala's policies meant to her family, how they'd given her hope for a better future. Another man shared a story about his small business and how he was inspired by Kamala's focus on community growth.

Each story reminded me why I was here and why this work mattered. It wasn't just about politics or policies—it was about people, about making their lives better. At one point, a group of young women approached me, asking for a picture. "We're such big fans of your sister," one of them said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "And you, too! You're such an inspiration."I blinked, caught off guard. An inspiration? Me? The same woman who'd spent the past few weeks crumbling under the weight of her struggles? But their smiles were so genuine, their admiration so real, that I couldn't help but smile back. "Thank you," I said, feeling a little more steady on my feet. We posed for a picture, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I laughed. It wasn't forced or practiced—it was real, bubbling up from a place I thought had gone quiet. The rest of the event passed in a blur of handshakes, conversations, and more pictures. I found myself genuinely enjoying parts of it—hearing people's stories, sharing a few laughs, and feeling the energy of the crowd. There were moments when I felt the weight creeping back in, a flicker of doubt, or a pang of sadness that threatened to pull me under. But I pushed through, focusing on the faces around me, on the hope and determination they radiated. By the time the event wrapped up, I was exhausted in a way that felt strangely satisfying. My feet ached, my voice was hoarse, but my heart felt just a little lighter. As I got back into the car and leaned my head against the seat, I realized something: today had been hard—hard. But it had also been good. It reminded me that even amid everything I was going through, there was still room for moments of joy, for connection, for purpose. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I'd taken a step toward finding myself again. 

When I got back to the hotel, every inch of me ached—not just my body but my heart, my mind, my spirit. I dropped my bag near the door, kicked off my shoes, and just stood there for a moment, taking in the stillness of the room. The day had been long and draining, and although I'd managed to push through, all the energy I had left seemed to drain away the moment I walked inside. I stared at the bed, thinking about how empty it looked without my husband there. I had spent the whole day throwing myself into work, talking to voters, laughing with strangers, and putting on my strongest face. But now that it was just me, alone with my thoughts, the cracks in my facade began to show again. I needed a shower. A long, hot shower to wash away the stress, the exhaustion, the mask I'd worn all day. I grabbed my toiletries and made my way to the bathroom, feeling heavier with every step. When I stepped inside, the mirror was still a little fogged from the shower Tony had taken before he left. I ran my fingers over the glass absentmindedly, tracing patterns without really thinking about it. The sight of my reflection brought a lump to my throat. My makeup was smudged, my hair was out of place, and I looked every bit as tired as I felt. I sighed and turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room before I stripped off my clothes. The hot water hit my skin like a warm embrace, and for a moment, I just stood there, letting it run over me. It felt good—comforting, even—but it wasn't enough. The tears started slowly at first, just a few drops mingling with the water, but then they came faster, harder, until I was sobbing under the spray. I pressed my hands against the tile wall, my shoulders shaking as I let it all out.