Page 56 of Almost Ravaged

I close my eyes, wet my lips, and exhale.

A solidclunkshatters the moment. A bar stool tipping over, or perhaps an employee dropping a tub of glassware.

My eyes fly open and we both go rigid.

Time stands still as a shared fear overtakes our bodies and we freeze up.

Alarm flares inside me, misplaced panic coursing through me in undulating waves.

The cruel reality is that no matter how much time passes or how okay I think I am, all it takes is a loud noise or a jolt of surprise to cause my brain to short-circuit and to send adrenaline flooding into my veins.

It was just a noise.

I’m in a crowded bar on a busy night.

It’s nothing.

I’m fine.

Ty’s here. We’re okay.

But we’re not fine. We’re really good at pretending most of the time, but our shared trauma is insidious. It’s instinct, as if our nervous systems are connected. We’re so complexly rooted together that I can sense the moment Ty will drop his hands a second before he does it.

The loss of him is all-consuming, triggering tears to flood my eyes.

Grateful to have my back to him, I blink them away before they can fall.

Sighing, Ty stands straighter and lifts his chin from my shoulder.

“Line’s moving.” The words are simple, but his tone is despondent.

The moment has passed, just like it always does.

It’s alwaysalmostbetween us.

That’s the way it’ll always be.

Ty’s been by my side through every up and down, through disappointment and pain and even my happiest times. He’s the safe place I crave when I lose track of where the nightmares end and my reality begins. We endured the same heartache; we survived the same trauma. But the energy it took to keep it together, to pull ourselves out of the darkness, left nothing but dregs in its wake.

We were almost everything to each other once.

Almost.

But we aren’t meant to be.

We got out, and we’re okay. I wouldn’t trade being here at Holt with Atty and Ty for anything. But that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn what we were on the verge of having, or every otheralmostencounter we’ve shared.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and shuffle forward in line. “Thanks.”

We almost had it all.

I swipe away a stray tear.

That word—almost—signifies that once, there was potential. Hope. There was effort and intention. There was longing and sparks and desire.

But then we pulled that trigger. Then there was trauma, and isolation, and a loneliness I don’t think I’ll ever be over.

Almost means it didn’t happen, and it never will.