Tired of Pretending
She had tried to push through it.
She buried herself in work, forced herself into a routine, convinced herself that time would dull the ache in her chest.
But time wasn’t healing anything. It was only making the silence louder, the loneliness heavier, the realization more brutal.
And Mallory?
She had seen enough. “You need to go on a date.”
Savannah groaned, throwing her head back against the couch, already exhausted by the idea. “Mallory, no.”
Mallory narrowed her eyes from across the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest, her patience wearing thin. “Yes.”
“No,” Savannah argued, dragging a pillow over her face.
“Yes.”
“Mallory.”
Mallory let out a long-suffering sigh, walking over to the couch and perching on the edge like she was gearing up for an intervention.
“Savy, I love you. But you have to start living again.”
Savannah exhaled sharply, staring at the ceiling. “I am living,” she muttered.
Mallory scoffed. “No, you’re surviving. There’s a difference.”
Savannah swallowed hard, her throat tight. She hated that Mallory could read her so easily.
“I don’t think I’m ready,” she admitted, her voice smaller than she intended.
Mallory’s expression softened. “I know.”
Savannah blinked, caught off guard by her honesty.
“But, Savy, no one is telling you to replace him.” Mallory’s voice was gentle, but insistent. “No one can replace him. But you’ve been drowning for a year, and I just… I just want you to come up for air.”
Savannah’s chest constricted. She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Mallory she was fine. But she wasn’t.
And Mallory knew it.
So Savannah took a deep breath. And nodded. “One date,” she whispered, barely convincing herself.
Mallory grinned, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “That’s my girl.”