Steve told me.
And the truth sank in. I had been drowning in my own despair for sixty-two miserable days.
The pain was still there, the emptiness still crushing, but I realized that I had to face it.
It was the only way forward. Even if it meant barely existing. Even if it meant only half-living.
Still, it took me days until I finally got out of my apartment, decided to eat out. Alone.
I wasn't in the mood for company. Didn't feel like making conversation.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. One I hadn't even thought through. Before I knew it, I had changed into something more presentable, thrown on my coat and shoes, and stepped out of my apartment.
Hands shoved deep into my pockets, head down, I walked along the sidewalk, scanning the restaurants that lined the street. I wasn't in the mood for crowds or noise. I just wanted a quiet place to eat.
Eventually, I settled on an Italian restaurant. Even from the outside, the rich, savory aroma drifting through the doors made my stomach growl in anticipation.
Strangely, it wasn't too busy. I wondered why. Maybe it was expensive.
Then I stepped inside, unaware that this simple choice—this fleeting, impulsive decision—was about to set off a chain of moments that would shape me in ways I wouldn't be able to comprehend.
Moments where I would break and rebuild, where I would lose and learn.
Where the past would collide with the present, forcing me to face the wreckage I had tried so hard to ignore.
Where buried regrets would rise to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged. Where the weight of my choices would press against my chest, leaving no room to run, no space to hide.
Where pain would carve deeper before healing could begin. Where I would be tested, stripped raw, and forced to confront the man I had become and the one I still had a chance to be.
And in the middle of it all, between the heartbreak and the awakening, between the undoing and the rebuilding, was the faintest glimmer of something I thought I had lost forever.
Hope.