My credit card bills can vouch for the number of candles and pillows I’ve purchased since moving into this place. I’ve taken up new hobbies, cluttering my space with an overabundance of yarn or calligraphy pens, hoping they would fix everything.

It hasn’t worked yet.

The framed prints of photos I’ve taken over the years used to bring me joy. The photo of beautiful red rocks set against the stormy gray sky still hangs on my wall beside the shot of Lake San Cristobal surrounded by green-covered mountains and the bright blue sky reflecting off the water—that one won me an award. The black-and-white print of miles and miles of snow-covered trees in the frame Gran gave me for my birthday was the first time I was paid for my work. The large canvas off to the side, of the ice-covered lake with the fire-hued sunset peeking through the mountains, was featured in a national travel magazine.

But now when I see these pictures, these visual representations of my true, authentic self, I don’t envision more adventures to be had or goals to reach. I fight back the memories of looking through my camera and feeling the world fall from beneath my feet as I framed the perfect shot. Now all I feel is a familiar twinge in my chest, a constant reminder of all the things I lost when Gran left.

Another dream forgotten.

And that’s okay.

Not everyone can live their biggest dreams. Not everyone can feel at ease.

Maybe it’s the constant edge of wondering what next? that keeps me going, and I just need to get used to it.

Or maybe I should get a cat like my mom has been pushing me to do since she moved back to her tiny hometown in the Smoky Mountains after I graduated college. I’ve been fighting her on it, but maybe she’s onto something.

Maybe a skittish, mildly detached creature is the perfect remedy to all my problems.

Unfortunately, before I can sit down to plan a day to go to the animal shelter and find the answer to my loneliness, there’s a knock on my door. Part of me wants to hide and pretend not to be home, but considering the only person who ever shows up on my doorstep unannounced is George from across the hall, who watches me through the peephole—which is only slightly creepy once you get to know him—there’s no point.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m not one of those people who rips her bra off straightaway after all.

I swing the door open, plastering a smile on my face to greet my neighbor and whatever puzzle he’s brought by this time. But it falls off instantly, because of fucking course I’m met not with a jigsaw treat, but instead, the last face I ever expected to see.

Ever.