Page 29 of To Her

I must have drifted off eventually, because I woke to sunlight streaming through the window I'd forgotten to close. My clothes were twisted uncomfortably around me, and my mouth tasted like something had died in it.

For a blissful moment, I didn't remember. And then it all came crashing back—the café, Con's words, the beach, Alex's text. The reality of my life, the consequences of my choices.

I reached for my phone, squinting at the screen. It was just past nine. I had a shift at the restaurant at noon. Three hours to pull myself together enough to function in public.

There were two new messages—one from James asking if I was okay, and another from Alex asking if I'd gotten his text. I ignored both, dropping the phone onto the bed beside me.

I forced myself to get up, to shower, to brush my teeth.

Basic human functions that suddenly seemed like monumental tasks.

The hot water helped a little, washing away the grit of the beach and the stiffness from sleeping in my clothes.

But it couldn't touch the heaviness in my chest, the sense of loss that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there.

As I dressed for work, I caught sight of myself in the mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, the ghost of the person I'd been just a few weeks ago. When had I gotten so thin? When had these shadows appeared under my eyes? When had I started looking so... defeated?

The drive to work was a blur, my body on autopilot while my mind continued its endless loop of self-recrimination. I arrived at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare, plastering on a fake smile as I pushed through the door.

"You look like shit," James said by way of greeting, his eyes scanning my face with concern.

"Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear."

He ignored my sarcasm. "I take it the talk with Con is affecting you more then you thought?”

I busied myself with tying my apron, avoiding his gaze. “I already told you. He's done with me. Can't say I blame him."

James sighed, leaning against the counter. "What happened, exactly?"

"He told me to get my shit together. Said he was tired of watching me self-destruct." I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and not even within cooee. "Standard breakup stuff."

"That's not a breakup, Geri. That's someone who cares about you setting a boundary."

I finally looked at him, irritation flaring. "What's the difference? The end result is the same—he's gone."

"The difference is that he left the door open. He didn't say 'never call me again.' He said call when you're ready to stop running." James's voice was gentle but firm. "That's not someone who's given up on you. That's someone who's refusing to enable you."

His words hit too close to home, piercing the armour of indifference I was trying so hard to maintain. I turned away, blinking back unexpected tears.

"Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'm better off alone anyway."

James made a sound of frustration. "That's bullshit and you know it. You're not better off alone. You're just safer alone. There's a difference."

Before I could respond, the first customers of the day walked in, forcing us to table the conversation. I threw myself into work, grateful for the distraction of taking orders, carrying plates, making small talk with strangers. For a few hours, I could pretend to be normal, to be okay.

But as the shift wore on, exhaustion set in—not just physical tiredness, but a bone-deep weariness that made every smile, every "How can I help you?" feel like lifting a weight.

By the time my shift ended, I was running on fumes. James tried to convince me to stay for a coffee, to talk more about what had happened with Con, but I begged off, claiming I needed to get home to rest before my early shift the next day.

The truth was, I couldn't bear any more of his well-meaning advice, his gentle prodding at wounds that were still too raw to touch. I knew he was right—about Con, about me, about all of it. But knowing and accepting were two very different things.

The drive back to Riverside stretched before me like a metaphor for my life—long, solitary, with no clear destination in sight. I turned the radio up loud, trying to drown out the voice in my head that kept asking the same question over and over: What now?

What happened when you'd burned all your bridges? When you'd pushed away the one person who had seen all your jagged edges and wanted you anyway? When you'd finally proven, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were exactly as unlovable as you'd always feared?

The answer, it seemed, was this: You kept going.

You woke up each day and put one foot in front of the other.

You worked. You ate. You slept. You existed in the spaces between moments, never fully present, never fully absent.

You survived, even when survival felt like the cruellest punishment of all.

And maybe, just maybe, you started to wonder if there might be more to life than just surviving. If there might be a way back from the wasteland you'd created. If "getting your shit together" might actually be worth the pain it would surely entail.

But that was a thought for another day. For now, I just needed to make it home, to crawl into my bed in my empty room, and to hope that tomorrow would hurt just a little bit less than today.

It wouldn't, of course. I knew that. But hope was all I had left, and I was clinging to it with everything I had.