Page 58 of Loving Lauren
That made her sob harder, but it felt different—like something tight inside her finally cracked open.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Always. Now get some sleep if you can. Tomorrow doesn’t have to be good. Just show up.”
When they hung up, Sierra lay in the dark with Salem purring against her shoulder. The emptiness still pressed in heavy, but now there was a thin seam of light running through it. She cried until there was nothing left, and somehow morning happened anyway.
Chapter 33
The first month was survival mode. Sierra taught her classes on autopilot, smiled at the right moments, came home to Salem and tried not to look at the empty spaces Lauren had left behind. Thalia brought groceries. The Chaos Coven texted daily. Some days she forgot to eat until Calliope showed up with takeout.
By month two, the sharp edges had dulled to a constant ache. She started journaling again. It was angry scrawls at first. The pages were messy with feeling, words spilling out faster than she could control. Anger that didn’t fit inside her. Hurt that felt endless. Love with nowhere left to go. Some entries fell apart into charcoal sketches in the margins—an eye she knew too well, hands she couldn’t forget, the outline of a jaw that belonged to someone who didn’t want remembering.
Jonas gave her extra work, probably recognizing she needed the distraction. She began sleeping through the night again, most nights.
One particularly rough Thursday, Thalia physically dragged her to a therapist’s office on Fifth Street. Dr. Lowe had kindeyes and didn’t push when Sierra spent the first ten minutes just staring at the tissue box.
“I keep thinking I should be over it by now. It’s been months. People break up all the time.”
“Grief doesn’t follow a schedule, and this wasn’t just any breakup. You lost someone you’d built a life with.”
“But they left me. They chose to leave.” The words came out bitter, sharp.
“They did, and it hurt you deeply. But their leaving doesn’t mean you weren’t worth staying for.”
Sierra’s throat closed up. She grabbed a tissue she didn’t need just to have something to do with her hands. “Then why does it feel like it does?”
“That’s the work we’re here to do.”
Month three brought small victories: laughing at one of Jett’s terrible jokes without feeling guilty, buying coffee without automatically ordering Lauren’s drink, too, taking photos for herself instead of just for clients.
The grief was still there, but different. Not easier, exactly. More like a bruise that had faded but still hurt when she poked at it. And she kept poking at it, like an idiot.
She’d finally stopped obsessively checking her phone every five minutes, stopped getting her hopes up every time it rang. But her heart still did this stupid little twist whenever she saw a blocked number or heard a song that reminded her of listening to music at night with Lauren, sharing earbuds.
Work became her escape. She said yes to every shoot, stayed up way too late editing photos until her eyes felt like sandpaper. At the community center, she taught about light and shadows while trying to pretend she wasn’t drowning in her own darkness.
Everyone was worried about her, but at least she wasn’t actively drowning anymore. More like floating in this strange liminal space between okay and not okay.
Still, she dragged herself to the community center every week. Without fail. Even on the mornings when getting out of bed felt like more than she could manage. Even when her voice cracked halfway through explaining color theory and she had to collect herself. The students never asked invasive questions, but a few started staying after class to talk about nothing important, or sometimes to sit beside her in comfortable silence. It helped more than she’d ever be able to admit out loud.
One evening, she finally worked up the courage to log into social media after months of complete digital silence. The memories hit her like a physical wave — selfies from Hawaii with flower crowns and sun-drunk grins, late-night movie marathon photos, candid shots of her laughing into Lauren’s shoulder while Salem photo bombed in the background. She didn’t scroll for long, but she also didn’t cry, which felt like some kind of minor victory.
Thalia had been gently but persistently pushing her to do something, anything, for herself. “Go paint outside in the park. Try street photography. Hell, take a pole dancing class if you want. Just feel something other than this, sis. Anything else.”
Sierra didn’t sign up for any dance classes, but she started carrying her camera around again like she used to. One afternoon, she discovered this incredible alleyway downtown where murals exploded with color and life, layer upon layer of street art creating a visual symphony. She wandered for hours with her camera. Close shots of chipped paint, sunlight breaking between fire escapes, kids flying by on scooters with streamers trailing behind them. Little things, ordinary things, and finally after months, she felt awake. Present.
That night she lit her sandalwood candle and wrote in her journal, hand steady for once:Today I remembered who I am without her.
Not the same as before. But still me.
Her friends had never given up, even when she went quiet, even when she canceled at the last minute. They kept showing up. Jett appeared with bubble tea and aggressively dumb memes that made her laugh despite herself. Raven physically dragged her to the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings, even when Sierra sulked and complained the entire time about crowds and sunshine. Calliope started crashing on her couch regularly, usually falling asleep with Salem sprawled across her chest like a furry heating pad. They never asked her to be okay or to put on a brave face. They asked her to exist, and somehow that felt manageable.
By month four, the seasons had shifted in a subtle way that creeps up on you. Her apartment smelled like sandalwood and fresh air again instead of stale sadness. Not all of her plants were dead. She’d watered them a few times, enough that some leaves still looked alive, and when a stranger smiled at her in the coffee line, she didn’t flinch or drop her eyes right away.
She wasn’t healed. Not even close. The Lauren-shaped hole in her chest was still there, maybe always would be. But she was surviving, not just drifting through the motions. On the better days, that was enough.
Some mornings she even woke up wondering, just a little, what the day might bring. Not excitement, but more like curiosity. It wasn’t happiness. Not yet, but it was something lighter than the crushing weight she’d been carrying.
