That morning, as I watched Avril’s car disappear down the road, the emptiness hit me without warning—sharp and merciless, like a blow to the chest I hadn’t braced for.
I stayed there long after her taillights vanished, rooted to the spot as the night air bit into my skin. I barely felt the cold. My hands still remembered the curve of her waist beneath my palms, the way she fit against me like she always had. My jacket still carried her scent, faint but unmistakable, clinging to the fabric like a ghost that refused to leave.
She was alive.
The words still didn’t feel real. Not fully. I’d said them to myself over and over again, like a prayer, like a desperate attempt to anchor the truth before it slipped away again.
She was alive.
And somehow—against all logic, against all the damage I
