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“I miss him so fucking much.”

“I know.”

My eyes snap open. “You know?”

“Of course I know.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you weren’t ready to hear it.”

Tears fill my eyes, and I shake my head. “I wanted him to be happy. That’s why I didn’t call him. I couldn’t ask him to wait for me when I didn’t even know if I would ever be ready. Keeping him close while I figured myself out would’ve been selfish.”

“You let him go.”

“I thought I had to.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.” I wipe angrily at the tear that escapes. “I’m happy, Mamma.”

“I know.”

I look at her, and she smiles. “And that’s why I’m asking you now.”

My chest tightens.

“You’ve spent two years learning to live without Damiano.”

I close my eyes, and the letter I finally opened last month flashes through my mind.

Live.

I am.

I finally am.

Mamma squeezes my hand. “Maybe it’s time you ask yourself who you’re grieving now.”

My eyes open, and I stare at her.

Who am I grieving now?

Damiano. Of course I still grieve Damiano. There are days when I miss him so much I can barely breathe, and I know there will always be days like that.

But this ache in my chest right now?

The phone calls I never make. The things I still save in my head to tell him even though I know I won’t. Looking for dark curls in crowds. The many nights falling asleep remembering that kiss. Missing Wyoming while standing in the city I called home for most of my life.

Missing his stupid grunts. His arms. His smell. His fucking face.

This isn't the same ache.

This one has green eyes.

This one smells like hay and forest. This one barely fucking talks and taught me to ride. He fed me when I forgot to eat, sat beside me when I didn’t want to talk and held me when I broke.

He made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how.