Dream On

by Jennifer Hartmann

“I’m not ready to say goodbye. I already lost you once, and it broke me.”

“It was my accident. I caused that. And when someone shows you who they really are, you believe them.” “I have seen who you are.” Stevie jerks back, dropping my wrists and stabbing a finger at my chest. “It’s not who you think it is.”

“Nobody’s perfect, Lex. Nobody always does the right thing at the right time. But we learn. We grow. With every blow, every setback, we become better people,” she says. “I can’t pretend to understand the things you’ve been through, the horrors you’ve seen. But you still know how to feel, how to love, how to make people smile, and that’s beautiful.” Tears

“Fall in love.” “Lex,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face. “I already am.”

I knew I’d lost her. My only lifeline had been severed at the quick, all by my own doing. I cried my heart out in the front seat of my sports car, slamming my fists against the wheel, screaming my agony into the cold, blizzardy night.

She’s always been my hope, wrapped in dark hair, pale skin, and emerald eyes. Hope of better days, of sweeter living. An all-consuming light just within reach.

But he doesn’t understand that protecting me from the harsh truths of life doesn’t keep me safe. It only keeps us both stagnant, locked in a bubble of unrealized potential. By trying to shield me from pain, he’s kept us from growing, from learning, and from confronting the very realities that shape who we become.

“I think we’re armed with the tools to carve out our own path, to create exactly what we want,” she continues. “When we leave our dreams up to circumstance, we relinquish control. And I think it’s easier sometimes, letting something else take the wheel, but then we never get to uncover who we really are. What we’re capable of. What we’re made of.” She smiles softly. “We’re the ones holding the pen. It’s up to us to write the ending.”

“A tangled web of lies,” he says breezily. “My future bride texted me this morning. Things are looking promising.” My eyebrows dip. “Who?” “Stevie’s sister.”

Part of me wonders if we can still be…friends. Despite everything. The world feels cold without her in my life in some way. Ice cubes in my lungs. Glaciers in my chest. It’s an underwhelming existence in the aftermath of Stevie St. James.

“When my mother was doing everything she could to toss me back into the pits of depravity, that girl was there, holding my hand, telling me I was a star—and not because I was on TV, not because I came from privilege and wealth, but because I was me.”

had my true gift. My peace. My happy ending. And I sent her away. For this.

“You taught me how to be afraid of love. That survival meant wearing a mask, smiling through the pain, and never, ever letting anyone see what’s real. You taught me how to close off my heart, made me believe love was something I had to earn, not something that should have been freely given.”

“And I hope every time you close your eyes, you remember that. I hope it haunts you, knowing that all I ever needed from you was the one thing you could never give me.”

The idea of possibility takes root as I envision rewriting the ending of my own story, choosing what I want over what I fear.

To feel is life’s greatest honor. And I know now, the source of all of it…is love.

She didn’t care about his money or the roles that made him famous. She cared about the cracks, the gaps, the missing pieces he was too afraid to show. She wanted to fill them. Where everyone else saw the flashy exterior, she saw the person underneath.

“But I never feel down when you’re here. When I’m holding you. When you’re smiling at me. Whenever I’m with you, I just feel…free.”

His brows crease, pinching together as he nods. “Yeah, Nicks,” he says softly. “I’ve never loved anything the way I love you. That’s why it’s so obvious that I haven’t been the same without you. I’ve been this shell, this broken person. Every part of me—everything I am—makes sense when you’re here. That’s how I know.”

“We have this thing. At dinnertime, we go around the table and reveal the best part of our day. The highlight.”

Death isn’t always tangible. Sometimes it’s a feeling, and sometimes it’s the absence of feeling. Sometimes it’s a weight added, and sometimes it’s a weight lifted. Mourning isn’t always funerals and headstones; sometimes it’s the silent realization that some things are better left to rest.