Amelia’s POV
At eleven-forty-seven PM on a Tuesday, I’m sitting on my futon, staring at nothing, when I notice the mug on my makeshift nightstand. Navy blue ceramic with a gold rim. Daniel bought it for me on our first anniversary because I’d mentioned liking the one at a café we’d passed. Such a small thing. So thoughtless to anyone else.
But he’d remembered.
My hands start shaking. Then my whole body.
The sound that comes out of me doesn’t sound human. It’s animal, guttural, the kind of grief that lives in your bones and tears you apart from the inside out.
I grab the mug—that stupid, thoughtful, devastating mug—and throw it against the wall.
It shatters. Navy blue ceramic exploding into a hundred pieces, scattering across my floor like evidence of everything broken inside me.
An
