One morning Sally woke up with a piercing pain in the center of her chest. The epicenter was directly beneath her breastbone. She rubbed at the pain with one hand as she curled onto her side. She knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again; it just took her longer to face the day on mornings like this.
Thousands of miles away, Liana sat in a cafe, notebook open, watching the world beyond the window transition from pale dusk to night. Glowing streetlamps burned brighter as the world turned dark. She looked down at the page she had just filled, grimacing as she sipped her espresso. Another damn page filled with this garbage.
Liana flipped back through her notebook, scanning over what she’d written in the weeks since she left Sally. This was an all-too familiar process, one that she knew she needed to undertake in order to move on, but no less infuriating. She knew that if she flipped back further, she would find flowery musings about the euphoria that had filled her while she and Sally were together.
During moments of weakness, she turned back to those pages. She could only read a few lines before an unbearable, gaping emptiness spread through her. She had to keep writing. She had to write until she understood, or until she was at peace with not understanding. This evening, the need was particularly strong, almost desperate. Lifting the pen with a sigh, she continued writing.
As Sally turned back her covers and began the slow process of leaving bed, another sharp pain struck.