Simon, despite his best efforts, is a liar.
My heart hasn’t healed, and Nigel has been gone for 614 days. Yes, I’m counting. Eventually, I hope to forget how many days he’s been away.
I doubt that day will ever come.
In my best friend’s defense, I am better. I’m not the wallowing widow from a year and a half earlier, unable to leave my husband’s gravesite.
Wounds heal, but time only emphasizes the rough edges of the scars left behind.
Scars that no amount of time can touch. Such is my life, twenty months after it ended.
Yes, I’m still breathing, but that’s about as close as I tread to the world of the living most days.
Still, I have my own minor victories. It only took me three months to put on pants. It was a milestone achievement.
But slowly, over the last million months, I’ve begun adapting to my new normal. I hate that term with a passion. There’s nothing normal about spending your life alone when you planned to spend it with the man of your dreams. It’s not like I kicked Nigel to the curb, eager for an upgrade.
He was my everything. I fell in love with him the first time our eyes locked across the pub, and I knew nothing would ever be the same.
Less than one second to realize the massive role this man would play in my life.
Even Simon recognized our connection for what it was. True love. Unabashed true love.
That kind of love happens once in a lifetime. Mine was stolen at the age of thirty-five. But my life, if you want to call it that, keeps plodding along.
Sometimes when I search my reflection in the mirror, all I see is a face vaguely resembling someone I once knew. I’m awash with emotions and pain, along with the lingering guilt that Nigel should have survived and I should be the one kicking up daisies.
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