Page 13 of Letters of Faith
The words sink into my veins like a drug. One hit, and I’m addicted to how Nate’s voice flits across the edges of my mind as I read each word. But when I get to the end of this letter, it will be over, and there are no more hits for me to take. So I take my time, savoring each word one by one, and when it’s over, I crumble to the ground, exhausted.
My heart cracks as I think about the person Nate thought I was and who I actually am.
He thought I was brave and strong, but I’m neither. Without him, I’m a coward—going through the motions, not really living.
What would he say if he could see me now?
I haven’t stepped foot in a church in a year. At the funeral, I sat in a pew while the pastor spoke, but I couldn’t hear a word he said because anger bubbled up in my chest, threatening to strangle me. I made Nate a promise that day we found out he was terminal, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it. On the day of his funeral, anger over his death simmered through my blood, and that feeling hasn’t left—pushing me further and further away from God.
And moving on?
A maniacal laugh slips out—wild and uncontrolled.
This must be what it feels like to be on the edge of insanity.
What was Nate thinking? Move on?
There’s him—only him.
Life might be about love, but so is death. I counted every breath he took, praying it wouldn’t be his last. Then I watched as those prayers didn’t work, and he withered away. I lost pieces of myself I will neverget back.
So, even if I wanted to move on and find love again, I’m broken, and that wouldn’t be fair to anyone else.
They say there are five stages of grief, but that’s a lie. There’s only one—emptiness.
There’s no guide—just the raw and jagged emptiness that can only be filled with the person who’s gone.
______________________
After an hour of lying on the bathroom floor, my neck aches.
I should get up.
I’ve told myself that a thousand times in the last hour, but it’s not until I hear the doorbell ring that I can finally do it.
Rising slowly, I shake my legs out. They went to sleep thirty minutes ago, and as much as I despise that feeling, I haven’t moved.
The tingling stabs up my legs as I drag my eyes to the mirror above the sink and wince at my reflection.
Dull, lifeless eyes stare back at me. Frizzy hair falls out of my ponytail. My eye bags are turning purple from the tears I’ve shed today. Overall, it’s a scary sight.
Pulling the ponytail holder from my hair, I run a brush through it as the doorbell rings again.
A loud knock follows the ring, and I throw the brush down on the counter before grabbing the letter off the floor where I was lying.
Squaring my shoulders, I ready myself to face the firing squad as I slip into the hall.
There’s a bookcase in the living room next to the front door. Slipping a book off the shelf, I drop the letter between the pages.
I don’t know who delivered it, but I don’t want to share it with anyone else yet—not until I have more time to process the words.
The doorbell rings again, and I reach for the handle, having left the person on the other side waiting long enough. When I open the door,though, I wish I had pretended I wasn’t home. Harper stands on the other side, a sour look on her face.
She looks me up and down, her nose snarled in disgust, before looking past me into the apartment.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me when she answers, instead letting her gaze sweep the room behind me. “Mom’s on her way. She wanted to have dinner here. Are you going to let me in?”
