The first week without her felt like waking up in a house with no walls.
Everything echoed.
Everything hurt.
I still held the envelope.
But I didn't open it.
Not yet.
Later, I saw it.
Her photo.
Online.
A tagged post from a mutual friend.
She was smiling.
Holding someone's hand across a table.
Not me.
I stared at that screen for a long time.
My heart was uneasy.
I drove to her café.
Same café. Same laugh.
But she wasn't laughing with me.
She looked good—free in a way I never could make her feel.
I used to be the reason behind that smile.
Now I was just a man behind a windshield, gripping the wheel like it might take me back in time.
But even I knew—it wasn't the world that broke us.
It was me.
She sat across from him like she belonged there.
Not in a way that screamed passion, but in that soft, steady way you lean into when you feel safe.
I remember when she looked at me like that.
I remember when I used to earn it.
That night, I decided.
I needed to do something about myself.
I started therapy the following week.
Not because I had some epiphany.
Because I looked in the mirror one night and thought:
You're running out of people to blame.
The first session, I barely spoke.
Just sat there, staring at the small clock ticking above the couch like it was judging me too.
The second, I told the truth:
"I was loved. And I wasted it."
I started writing.
Nothing poetic. Just... honest.
What I was feeling.
What I regretted.
What I wished I had said.
I started cooking instead of ordering in.
I went for walks at night—not to avoid the silence,
but to walk through it.
Let it talk to me.
One night, I finally had the courage to open the envelope.
Barry,
You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show up.
That's all I ever wanted.
You have a good heart. But you keep it too far from your own hands.
I hope someday, you learn how to hold it gently.
— Grace.
I read it five times.
And then I picked up my phone.
Me:
Hey... it's Barry. Would you be willing to meet up? I have something I need to say.
And then I waited.