He covers his yawn with a hand, then scrubs it over his adorable bedhead. “How are you feeling?” “Fine,” I lie. I know he knows. I know he can see it in my eyes. I know he can feel it in my vacant stare. I’m lying. I’m not fine. It’s stupid, but I’m not fine at all. I’m heartbroken. And I haven’t let myself feel anything, let alone heartbreak, in a long time. Peeling back those layers and allowing myself to feel is even worse than I remember, and I hate it. The vulnerability. The sharp pain. The helplessness.
