Because Nysa left yesterday, and today . . . I’m not dealing well. I’m not dealing at all. And it’s not like me to miss people. Fuck, it’s sad to confess that I’ve never let anyone get close enough for that to even be an option. Missing someone—it’s foreign to me. I wouldn’t know how to do it if I tried.
But with her?
It feels inevitable.
It’s everything.
It’s the way she moves through a room, not demanding attention but somehow drawing it anyway. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking, the way her fingers brush over book spines like she’s greeting old friends. It’s the fire in her when she argues, the quiet in her when she listens.
It’s her.
Her presence, the way it lingers even after she’s gone. The way she laughs without hesitation, like she’s never been afraid of happiness. Even when I know she’s scared of it—of a future, which is why she runs. The way she looks at Maddie, like my daughter is a gift, not just a responsibility. It’s the way she makes me feel something I wasn’t looking for, something I don’t know how to name.
It’s her, and God help me, I don’t know what to do with that.
Being with her feels right.
So right that everything in me—all the chaos, the noise, the guilt—falls silent.
And that silence?
It’s not the fear that grips and suffocates, the feeling that clenches around my ribs until I can’t breathe. No, this is different. No, it’s a peace I’ve never known. A quiet that doesn’t demand anything of me, that doesn’t feel like the world’s way of mocking me.
When I’m with her, the inner turmoil in my soul feels strange, like it doesn’t belong anymore. Like it’s been replaced by something else.
Something better.
Like it’s found home.
And maybe that’s what scares me the most—because I’ve spent my whole life believing that I’m not built for this. That I’m too broken, too scarred, to fit into anyone else’s life.
But with her . . .
With Nysa, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I could. I don’t know what that means yet. All I know is that she’s gone, and I feel it. Deep in my chest, in a place I didn’t even realize was hollow until she came and filled it.
And now that she’s not here?
I can’t stop thinking about her.
Is it normal to miss someone you barely know?
Maybe not.
But with Nysa, nothing about this feels normal. It feels like everything.
Today the barn is more quiet than normal. Save for the soft rustle of hay as the Chestnut Thoroughbred gelding shifts in his stall. It’s been two days since they brought him in—burned, battered, barely standing. But now, he’s finally starting to turn a corner.
I lean against the doorframe, watching as he picks at the fresh hay I spread out earlier. His coat is beginning to heal. His eyes, which had been dull and lifeless when he arrived, hold a bit of light now.
“You’re a tough one,” I mutter, stepping into the stall with a gentle pat on his shoulder. He flinches slightly but settles quickly.
The past two days have been a blur of late nights and early mornings, my time split between Maddie, the ranch, and this horse. His injuries were some of the worst I’ve seen, but he’s fighting, and I’m not about to give up on him.
“You’re going to make it,” I say softly, more to myself than to him. “If you continue doing this well, we can bring Maddie to meet you. She loves horses.”
He looks at me like that doesn’t really matter. Maybe what he needs is for me to bring him Nysa. The woman who was helping him the first night. Or . . . maybe I’m just projecting myself.
By the time I head back to the house, the sun is high, and Maddie’s laughter drifts out through the open windows. I can already tell she’s gotten into something she shouldn’t.
