Amelia’s POV
Day twenty-two without him.
I write the words at five-thirty in the morning, sitting on my futon with a cup of coffee. Outside, the city is already active—delivery trucks rumbling, early commuters trudging toward their lives.
My routine is automatic now. Wake at five. Coffee. Journal. Work by seven-thirty. Stay late. Gym. Home. Sleep. Repeat.
I’m thinner. My clothes hang loose. Harper keeps saying I need to eat more, but food requires appetite, and appetite requires caring, and caring hurts too much.
The gym helps. Not the expensive one with eucalyptus towels. This one is $20 a month, fluorescent-lit. I can run until my lungs burn and my thoughts quiet. I can lift until my muscles shake.
It’s the closest I get to peace.
Work has settled into rhythm too. I’m good at bein
