From the feeling in my gut that reminds me I don’t deserve the label of best friend—that he deserves so much better than me in friendship or more. In a parallel universe, one where grief hadn’t broken me, I could be with Matt. Easily. It would be beautiful and simple and mundane. He’d want marriage, and I’d go to the courthouse the next day. We’d sit across the kitchen table to write grocery lists. We’d shower together without a happy ending. We’d fold each other’s laundry and bandage each other’s wounds and life would be easy. Easy and content and calm and the opposite of lonely. But that
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