Page 161 of Wild Thing
It was done.
It was finally over.
The weight of the lies was gone.
I could start to heal and move on.
Forty-Four
Five Months Later
DYLAN
Present Day
Heartbreak is a real bitch.
The unrelenting pain of a broken heart… well, it fucking hurts.
I miss Brax. I still love him. Part of me probably always will.
How do I get over someone I never really had?
Even though I know better, I keep checking his social media, hoping for a glimpse of his life. Of course, he hasn’t postedanything. I haven’t either. The radio silence is torture—what is he doing? Has he moved on, maybe even gone back to Ally?
Don’t go there, Dyl.
My session with Dr. Crowe has just ended and Brax's face is still vivid in my mind.
Since I moved from White Point to Miller’s Bay, we’ve shifted our sessions to Zoom, but some things never change; Dr. Crowe is still guiding me and helping me heal, and Brax’s presence still haunts my thoughts like an uninvited ghost.
Picking up my pen, I turn to my journal. I’ve gotten into the habit of writing down my feelings after each therapy session.
When will I not feel like I'm dying a slow death? I move through the days in pain. Sometimes, the pain is so sharp, so visceral that I struggle to take a deep breath.
Other times, it feels like a boa constrictor squeezing every ounce of air from my lungs. And it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, so bad that I can’t move.
And then there are days where I feel nothing at all. I'm empty, a shell of a human. How is it that one week of fucked up, impulsive decisions is still wrecking me?
I pause, my pen hovering above the paper.
Which is worse, I wonder. The relentless feeling of heartbreak or that endless, empty void?
I close my journal, deciding that’s enough for now.
I used to see journaling as weak, pointless. But Dr. Crowe is right—it helps. And it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than real therapy. Even though real therapy has pulled me from that dark pit of self-loathing into a place where I’m starting to find acceptance.
Journaling has become my way of processing these thoughts so I can finally start letting go of something that was never truly mine to begin with.
I’ve accepted that maybe my happy ending doesn’t include Brax. Maybe my happy ending doesn’t include anyone but me.
And maybe that’s okay.
“Do you want wine?” Taylor yells from the kitchen, her voice pulling me out of my thoughts.
I look around my new bedroom, taking in the haphazard stacks of moving boxes scattered along the walls that I’m yet to unpack. I toss my journal on top of one of the boxes and make my way toward the kitchen. “Sure.”
I might not have any food in the place, but I certainly have an essential: Pinot Grigio.
