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It scooped out my heart and left me believing in the power of soulmates.
I’ve always hated that phrase. Half the time, whenever someone says It’s not personal, it feels like a get-out-of-jail-free card. It’s a way to refuse responsibility for hurting someone.
Perhaps this is why we forgive people who don’t deserve it: nostalgia is a hell of a drug. It blurred all the bad, brightened the scant good, and told you pretty lies.
Grief, I thought, was supposed to be beautiful in its own way. Like shards of ice on skin: a stingingly cold, delicate yet razor-edged proof of the love left behind. Instead, grief had obliterated me, leaving me so empty, so broken, I could hardly feel anything at all.
