Page 125 of What Should Have Been Ours

How am I supposed to go on without him now that I’ve had him back? How am I supposed to wake up one day and not reach for him anymore? No longer be able to hear his laugh? Not get to feel the warmth of his arms pulling me in?

I press my hand against my mouth, trying to muffle the sobs, but they keep coming, shaking my entire body. My heart feels like it’s shattering in real time, piece by piece, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’m just being cut over and over by the shards.

Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and I curl up on the couch. My body is wrecked from grief, and my mind feels completely drained.

I cry until my tears run dry.

I cry until I have nothing left.

And at some point, I fall asleep—stuck in the cruelest heartache I’ve ever experienced.

54

Cameron

I wake back up to an empty bed. It feels like I just fell asleep.

I keep my eyes closed, listening to the silence of the apartment, feeling the space beside me where Gabrielle had been. The sheets are still warm, but she’s gone.

And then I hear her.

Soft, muffled sobs coming from the other room, and it completely breaks me.

I stay still, turning over now and staring at the ceiling, listening as her grief echoes through the walls.

I know what I’ve been feeling and what’s going through my mind every second of the day, being on the receiving end of all of this. But I also understand I’m the one who’s leaving. She’s the one who has to go on without me. And I can only imagine what that feels like, or what’s going on in her mind.

If the roles were reversed? If it were her? I don’t think I’d survive losing her. I don’t think I’d want to. The thought alone guts me. The idea of losing her is so unbearable that it makes me feel physically sick.

I stay there in bed, swallowing down the lump in my throat, reminding myself that there’s still time. I can’t change what’s coming, but I can make sure she’s left with as much love as I can give her.

That’s what I can control.

At some point after my thoughts wind back down, exhaustion pulls me back under again.

* * *

When I wake up in the morning, she’s still not in bed.

I push myself up, moving slower than I’d like, the weight of yesterday still pressing on my chest. When I step into the living room, I see her curled up on the couch, her body tucked tightly into herself.

She must have cried herself to sleep, and that thought alone nearly wrecks me.

I don’t wake her. I can’t.

Instead, I just grab a blanket and gently drape it over her, tucking it in around her small frame. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake up. Her face is peaceful now for the first time in forever, and I want to keep it that way for as long as I’m able to.

I step into the kitchen and make two mugs of hot chocolate. It’s muscle memory at this point—grabbing the cocoa, heating the milk just right, and stirring in a little cinnamon because Gabrielle always says it makes it taste better. I set the mugs on the coffee table and then ease onto the couch beside her, careful not to wake her too soon.

Eventually, she stirs, blinking up at me with tired eyes.

I shift, sliding an arm around her shoulders and guiding her to lay her head against my chest. She doesn’t resist. She just sighs and melts into me, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.

Wordlessly, I reach for her mug and hand it to her.

She takes it, staring at the steam curling from the surface, before quietly saying, “I wish we had more good hot chocolate days instead of so many bad ones lately.”

I exhale, rubbing slow circles into her back. “Me too.”