Jesse
She reached for me, tried to hold me, to help me…
I couldn’t.
It hurt too badly to hold and touch the woman I would never have again. The woman whose heart I broke so callously because of my own pain. Seeing her there staggered me because I knew she came for me, not him, and yet again, I treated her like s**t.
Maybe it’s for the best, at least now she can move on. She can stop trying to save me.
I down the last of the bottle and fall back to the sofa, staring at the ceiling. I can’t bring myself to go upstairs, to smell her scent, which is diminishing on my sheets. To see my son’s room that he will never use again.
The funeral was horrible, but this moment is even worse. The mourners at the service will move on with their lives—feel sad, then move on—but how do I?
How do I mo
