“And what about her?” I asked. “What if I never get to explain? What if she never wants to see me again?”

She glanced at my wrist, then slowly met my eyes. “Then you hold her with grace,” she said. “You let the love live in your heart, not your guilt. You don’t have to stop loving someone just because they’re not beside you.”

I nodded slowly, even though it felt like swallowing glass.

I realized too late that love wasn’t universal. It wasn’t a one-size-fits-all kind of thing—and that’s what made it so complicated. What might have felt like a grand gesture to one person could go unnoticed by another. It’s not just about having love in your heart; it’s about ensuring the other person feels it too. Because what’s the point of giving all the love in your heart if it doesn’t reach theirs?

Love was always portrayed as gentle; a seed of warmth that takes root in your chest and slowly unfurls into something beautiful when nurtured with care and patience.

It was something soft, something comforting.

It was meant to heal, to hold, to shelter.

But for me, love was a beast that tore at the fabric of my soul. Where others saw tenderness, I saw a hunger that never seemed to be satisfied. My hunger for love seethed and writhed inside me. I didn’t love gently because my heart didn’t allow me to, because it didn’t know any better. I didn’t love gently because I grew up starved for the kind of love that could heal.

In my desperation for gentleness, I became full of rage.

The session wrapped up soon after. The sun was already starting to fade outside the windows, and I still thought about her. Not in the bleeding, ragged way I used to—it was different now. Quieter. Softer. A dull ache instead of a constant, searing pain.

I thought about the way she used to doodle little stars next to the grocery lists, as if that made “buy milk” more important. The way her nose scrunched when she was mad. The way she always left a little bite of her dessert, even if she loved it, as if she couldn’t stand the finality of the last taste.

Beverly was still woven into the fabric of my thoughts, intricately stitched into the deepest corners of my heart—into parts of me I hadn’t realized had been shaped by her.

I’d keep her tucked away in my heart, just like Dr. Lemkin said. Tucked away in that quiet, sacred place where memories don’t fade and hope refuses to die. Until I could rebuild the bridge I burned to the ground, praying she was still standing on the other side.

52

BEVERLY, 2001

19 years old

“I got it!” I shrieked into my new phone, nearly tripping over a pothole in my excitement. “Tiff, I freaking got it!”