The Holly Dates

by Brittainy C. Cherry

traveled with novels the same way people traveled with their vape pens—glued in my hands. Imagine being in an awkward situation and you didn’t have something to occupy your hands with. Books had saved me multiple times on the city buses. You’d be shocked at how many times I’d escaped into reading during unpleasant commutes around the city. Novels saved millions of people from uncomfortable situations.

“Let’s just say sometimes books are better than reality.”

One of the only consistent things in my life was the fact I was going to read all the books possible.

Maybe a real man hadn’t gotten me off in a while, but enough fictional men said the right things to make me blush.

“Life happens when we’re not looking in all directions. Sometimes it’s messy.”

As a millennial, I did what most of us did regarding trauma. I sent self-deprecating memes to my friends, worked longer hours so I wouldn’t have to face my emotions, and buried said trauma deep, deep down while reminiscing about how great ’90s music was.

kissed her because I craved her taste. I kissed her because I wanted to. I kissed her because the only thing I could think to do at that moment was to lay my lips against hers. My arms wrapped around her, holding her against me as she kissed me back.

Maybe that was what grief truly was—a heart repeatedly breaking even years after the initial hurt. We had that in common—grieving individuals who were still alive.

“That’s the problem with trauma. Those who inflict it aren’t the ones who have to do the unpacking to heal from it.”