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The gold medal ambitions had always been her sister’s. And now they were all lost—Dillon, the medal, the dream.

It took me a long time to understand I didn’t kill Dillon Sinclair.

Years, if I’m honest. A journey through unconquerable heartache. Hours upon hours of endless therapy. Midnight callsto my parents. Unannounced drop-ins on my friends. It was a one-step-forward, two-steps-back, nonlinear kind of healing.

It was only when I finally came to terms with the acceptance that I could not have saved Dillon without her willingness to save herself, that I was able to let go of some of my guilt. There would always be things I could have done better—but the blame wasn’t solely on me.

My therapist allowed me to explore mywhat-ifs—what if I had done this, what if I had done that—and then bade me put them to rest. I had done the best I could with the information Dillon made privy. Some things were out of my control, and always would be.

With the lessening of my guilt, a more uncomfortable emotion came to pass: anger. I didn’t know how to forgive her. Forgive her for the hurt she put me through. Forgive her for the future she stole from us, without ever giving me a choice in the matter.

I grew obsessed trying to understand suicide, trying to understand the darkest places depression lured a person. Trying to understand how someone could see no other way out, no other relief from a pain so visceral, they felt there was no alternative.See the person, not the act, my therapist drummed into me. She reminded me I needed to remember Dillon for who she was, not for the decision she made during a time of intense emotional suffering.

Compassion was imperative—both for her and for me.

But even still, even as I grew to accept it—even if I knew I would never fully understand—the truth remained: I lost someone I wasn’t prepared to live without, and the despair of that will never go away.

It’s been two years now, and I still cry. Probably more often than I should. Certainly more often than I’d admit to anyone. But not as often as I used to. It’s when the sun hits just right—when a breath of chlorine and sunscreen touch the air—I can feel her, somewhere near me. Never close enough. Forever out of reach. And when that happens, wherever I’m at, I have to sit down—to try to catch my breath. To try to keep myself from crumbling.

I fail, frequently.All the king’s horses and all the king’s men…But I’ve learned to continue. To get up, dust myself off, and try again.

I still wear the necklace she gave me. Aside from filming, I’ve yet to take it off. Dillon was right; I haven’t been invited to the Met Gala—but I did get nominated for an Oscar for my portrayal of Mia Hamm. And win or lose, I’ll be wearing my Welsh lovespoon in front of the Academy.

Elliott keeps telling me it will get better. Maybe he’s right. He says one day I’ll find someone—that I’ll look up, when I least expect it, and catch a smile that makes my head spin and my heart feel things that currently no longer seem possible.

I like to think that’s true.

But it probably won’t be on a Hawaiian island. I probably—hopefully—won’t run them over with a rented Jeep. Our first kiss is unlikely to taste of pineapple.

I just know, whoever it is, they won’t be Dillon Sinclair. And I’ll never be their Kam-Kameryn.

Because the truth is, life isn’t fair. Not every love story has a Hollywood ending.

But here’s the thing: that hasn’t stopped me from feeling like our story was an unfinished line—like someone hit pause before the credits were rolling.

And it makes me wonder: what might have happened if a different choice had been made? If life were more like a movie, where a director could call ‘cut’ when a shot wasn’t working? Where the actors could go back to firsts, the crew could reset,and we could rewrite the scene. How different would our future be if we could film the take again?

Quiet on set!

Take two.

Roll sound!

Roll camera!

Action!

Scene 52: Take 2

The tide was rising.

Dillon hesitated on the landing of the staircase.

Just one foot, and then the other. One hundred eighty-three stairs to climb. She knew the way. And she knew the decision that awaited her at the top.

But the first step felt so daunting.

Two hundred feet above her, a Herring gull sang its guttural song as it circled the lighthouse. She watched the bird, temporarily transfixed as the pounding in her heart accelerated. It was now or never. Behind her, the foreshore to Mumbles Head was disappearing, and soon, a return trek to the mainland would be impossible.