Chapter 17
It’s strange how life keeps moving. How the world spins on without hesitation while inside you feel like you’re slowly dying.
After Brandon, I fell into something I didn’t have a name for at the time.
Just a heavy, gray version of myself. I floated through weeks like I was underwater while suffocating on dry land.
Eventually, I sat in a sterile room across from my doctor, and she gave it a name.
Depression. She gave me a little yellow pill and said it wouldn’t fix everything, but it would help keep me above the tide.
That’s how I know I’m depressed again now.
Because I recognize the way everything feels distant. I go through the motions—writing my articles, attending events, laughing at family dinners—while some detached version of me watches from behind a thick pane of glass. Present, but not here.
Nothing gets through.
Except them.
Will and Missy.
That’s a thing now. Will and Missy. Just the thought makes something inside me twist, low and mean.
I don’t know when they became official. Only that they are.
And while Will once looked me in the eye and swore nothing had happened, I’m sure the same can’t be said now.
Not with the way she clings to his arm in public.
Not with the photos I can’t seem to avoid on social media.
Not with how I saw them plain as day kissing at Cheyenne Frontier Days.
I was across the arena. They didn’t see me.
But I saw everything. And it felt like the air got sucked from my lungs.
Like the little, barely stitched seams in my chest ripped wide open again.
He looked happy. She looked victorious. And I stood there, holding notebook like a shield, pretending I wasn’t breaking.
I spiral slowly.
Quietly.
Like slipping beneath the surface without a sound.
I get really good at pretending. Smiling in pictures.
Asking about other people’s lives. Sending thank-you texts I don’t mean and laughing at jokes I don’t hear.
I stop replying to Bonnie as quickly. I start skipping post-event dinners.
Even Sam, who always knows when something’s off, doesn’t say much anymore.
Maybe he thinks I’m just busy or maybe he’s so busy with his own life that he doesn’t see what’s happening.
I keep writing, keep performing, keep moving because the minute I stop, it all rushes in.
I wake up in the mornings and feel nothing. I fall asleep at night and feel everything.
And just when I think I might be getting a handle on it, like I can keep it hidden in that neat little box I built for heartbreak, I walk into the barn at Liam’s place and hear Liam and Olive talking softly near the hayloft.
They don’t see me. They’re facing away, arms brushing as they lean over an iPad.
“We’ll do a small ceremony,” Olive says, her voice warm, glowing in a way that makes my stomach ache. “Just family. Under the cottonwood.”
Liam laughs. “I thought you said you wanted big and over-the-top?”
“I did.” She grins up at him. “But now I just want you.”
He pulls her close and presses a kiss to her temple. “We’ll make it perfect.”
I back away before they notice me, each step heavier than the last. Because it’s not just that everyone else is moving on. It’s that they’re finding joy in things I used to believe in.
Love.
Forever.
Family.
Things I used to imagine for myself, maybe even with Will. Now all I have is the ghost of that hope, echoing in my chest like a laugh I’ll never hear again.
By the time I get to my truck, I’m trembling. Not with jealousy. Not even with grief. But with emptiness. Because at some point, I stopped expecting anything good to stay.
I don’t drive home right away. I sit in the truck, hands clenched around the steering wheel, breathing like I just ran miles when I haven’t moved an inch.
The weight pressing down on my chest isn’t new, but today it feels heavier.
Like grief and shame and bitterness all braided into one, dragging me under.
I stare out the windshield for what feels like hours, eyes dry, heart hollow.
Then I go home.
I lock the door behind me. Don’t bother turning on any lights.
I drop my keys in the bowl by the door. Kick off my boots. Shrug out of my jacket. Walk past the living room window with the curtain that’s been closed for months. And then I stand in the middle of my kitchen and realize I don’t know what to do.
There’s no one to check on me.
No one waiting to see if I made it home safe.
No arms. No voice. No Will.
Just the sound of the refrigerator humming and the emptiness gnawing at the edge of everything.
I pour a glass of water and set it on the counter.
Then I sit on the kitchen floor and stare at it.
And that’s when it hits me.
The tears come fast, ugly, and unexpected. No slow trickle, no cinematic buildup. Just a violent, shaking storm of sobs that rip through me like a body remembering it has limits.
I press my forehead to my knees and cry so hard I forget how to breathe.
Because I’m tired.
Tired of pretending I’m okay.
Tired of watching people fall in love while I fall apart.
Tired of being the one who feels everything while the people I love find new ways to leave.
And most of all—
I’m tired of missing someone who didn’t choose me.
I stay on the floor until the tears slow and the shaking stops. My cheeks are sticky. My throat burns.
The glass of water still sits untouched on the counter.
And I realize, in the deepest, darkest corner of my chest I don’t know how to climb out of this. Not this time.
I don't know how long I sit there on the kitchen floor.
Eventually, I get up. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Pretend I’m a person again.
The days blur together after that.
I go to work. I come home. I eat just enough so people won’t worry. I reply to texts with emojis and half-hearted "lol"s and all the lies I can carry.
And then one afternoon, I get a call. It’s Olive. Her voice is sweet, tinged with that glowing happiness that used to be contagious.
“Hey, I was wondering if you'd want to help me plan the wedding. You’ve always had such a good eye for details, and I’d love to have you involved.”
I stare at the wall. Swallow the lump in my throat.
“You don’t have to say yes right now,” she adds quickly. “I just thought it might be nice. Something fun. Something to celebrate.”
Fun.
Celebrate.
I feel like my chest has been carved out and left hollow. But I still manage to say, “Yeah. Of course. Just let me know what you need.”
Because what else do you say when someone you care about is glowing, and you’re just gray?
I hang up the phone and sit in silence.
I imagine tulle and flowers and soft candlelight.
I imagine vows whispered under the cottonwood tree or maybe even in the town church.
I imagine Will there, standing at Liam’s side. Missy on his arm. And me? Probably standing in the background. Smiling. Pretending. Because that’s what I’m best at now, isn’t it? Pretending.
I tell myself I can handle it. That helping someone else build their forever won’t break me more than I already am.
But when I close my eyes that night, all I see is Will. His hand on Missy’s lower back, his smile pressed to someone else’s neck.
And I wonder, not for the first time, if I’ll ever feel whole again.
The wedding planning ramps up fast.
Venue tours. Catering tastings. Dress fittings. Group chats filled with sparkle emojis and Pinterest boards and countdown timers. And I sit quietly on the sidelines, wearing smiles that feel like lies.
Every detail feels like a needle under my skin. Every ivory swatch and lace veil, every handwritten vow brainstorm and glowing love song playlist reminds me of what I don’t have. Of what I lost before it ever really belonged to me.
Olive beams through it all, radiant in a way that makes people lean in and bask in her glow. And I want to be happy for her. I do. She deserves it. Liam worships the ground she walks on. But it’s hard to celebrate love when all I can do is mourn mine in silence.
Will’s there, of course. He’s one of the groomsmen.
Sometimes he’s with Missy, sometimes not, but he always looks effortless, grounded, and steady.
Sometimes he watches me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
But he never says a word. And I never give him the chance.
Because I don’t trust what I’d do if he did.
I start sleeping more just to escape being awake.
Start eating less because everything tastes like dust.
I cancel plans. Let messages pile up. Pull away from Bonnie. From my family. From anything that feels real.
And still, I show up to wedding meetings. Sit beside Olive as she glows and circles menu options and talks about floral arches and first dances. She doesn’t see how hollow I’ve gone inside, and I don’t tell her.
Because her happiness shouldn’t have to dim just because I’ve gone dark.
But the truth is I’m drowning.
In plain sight.
And no one seems to notice.
I stop remembering days. They just bleed together now. Soft edges and too-loud mornings and nights where I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, too numb to cry and too tired to sleep.
The wedding planning becomes something surreal. Like I’m watching someone else live it. Olive chats next to me about color palettes and signature mocktails while I nod and take notes I don’t remember writing.
People compliment me on how helpful I am. How calm.
If they knew how many times I’ve sat in my parked car outside the venue, digging my nails hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises on my palms just to keep from screaming, they might think otherwise. But no one asks. No one really looks. And I’ve gotten good at pretending I’m fine.
It all comes to a head at Olive’s dress fitting.
She stands on the pedestal, glowing in white. Lace trailing down her back. Her hands flutter over the bodice, and she looks at me in the mirror with stars in her eyes.
“What do you think?”
My throat closes.
“You look…” I try to smile. “Perfect.”
She beams. And something in me shatters quietly. Because it should’ve been enough to love someone. It should’ve meant something to feel this deeply. But all it got me was bruises on my soul and silence from the only man I ever let close enough to break me.
I excuse myself moments later.
Bathroom, I say. Smile intact.
But once the door shuts behind me, I slide down the wall, dress fabric swishing under my hands, breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
I press my fist to my mouth to keep the sob in but it’s too late.
It claws its way out of me anyway.
Because I’m tired.
So tired of being the girl who holds it together while quietly unraveling behind closed doors.
I sob into the sterile silence of the bridal shop bathroom, crouched on the tile in my dress, mascara smudging down my cheeks while everyone outside laughs and drinks champagne and celebrates a love story that doesn’t belong to me.
And for the first time, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to survive.
Days pass, then weeks.
I stop expecting to feel better. I move through life even though it’s muted. I keep my head down. Do my work. Show up when I’m supposed to.
But something in me has gone quiet.
And I don’t know how to turn it back on.
Early one morning the call comes.
It’s Charlie
“Olive’s in labor,” she says, voice breathless and thick with awe. “It’s happening. The twins are coming.”
We always joked about how Liam would faint. How Charlie and I would be the ones keeping Olive calm.
Now I can barely feel my own hands as I grab my keys and head out the door.
At the hospital I sit with Olive’s mother, watching the door, waiting for news. Sam, Charlie, and Sam Jr come and then go. Hours stretch and bend. I feel like a prop in someone else’s story.
Eventually, the babies are born. Two girls. Tiny, red-faced miracles wrapped in soft hospital blankets. I hold it together long enough to hand Olive a bottle of water. To squeeze Liam’s shoulder. To smile at the twins like I’m whole enough to mean it.
Then I step into the hallway.
Just for air.
Just to breathe.
And that’s when I see them.
Will and Missy.
Walking down the corridor, hand in hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they belong here. Like she belongs here.
Will stops when he sees me.
Missy doesn’t.
She smiles like someone who doesn’t know what she took. “Phern! Isn’t this incredible? I can’t wait to see the babies!”
I try to nod. Try to smile. Try to not let the room tilt.
Will’s gaze flicks over me. Concern. Guilt. A dozen unsaid things. I don't want his pity. I don't want her voice in my ears. I don't want any of this.
But I manage to whisper, “Yeah. They’re beautiful.”
Then I turn.
And walk away.
Down the hallway. Around the corner. Past the vending machines. Past the chairs full of strangers.
I find the stairwell and close the door behind me before the tears come.
Because seeing Will holding her hand?
Seeing her beam like she belongs in his life?
That cracked something open that I had carefully, painstakingly buried.
And now I’m bleeding all over again.
Quiet.
Alone.
In a stairwell.
While the world upstairs welcomes new life, I grieve what’s been dying inside me for months.