I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I’ve done nothing but think about Emma.

I’ve done nothing but regret every stupid fucking decision I’ve made in my pathetic life that has led me to this point.

I’ve done nothing but dream about her, thinking of how I can make this right.

I haven’t found a solution yet. A time machine would be preferred, so I could go back and keep my goddamn hands to myself.

Now that I’ve been fortunate enough to know life with Emma in it, in an all-encompassing way—intimately, passionately friendly, lovingly—I don’t think I’ll survive without her.

And it’s my own fault.

I dug my grave and now I have to suffer.

What was I thinking, telling Shelby which outfit of hers I liked best? Or touching her hair and commenting on the new color?

Or, Jesus Christ, telling her how good she looked?

It’s amazing Emma didn’t push me in front of a moving bus. I fucking deserve it.

Never in my existence on Earth have I had the burning desire to take care of someone before. Now, however, this deep, carnal urge to make sure she’s okay engulfs my every waking thought.

I caused her to hurt.

I caused her pain.

While all the bones in my body want to sprint to her house, bash her door in, and take her in my arms, cradling her against my chest and apologizing for my actions… I can’t move.

I’m immobile.

No matter how much I want to grovel at her feet and repent for my sins, I won’t.

She asked for time.

I intend to give it to her. No matter how much it hurts me to do so.

I’ll sit quietly. Idly. Waiting.

For her.

If she needs a week, I’ll give her a week.

If she needs a month, I’ll give her thirty days.

If she needs a whole damn year, I’ll oblige, counting down every hour. Because she’s worth it.

It’s Wednesday now, four full days after I last saw her, and I’m beginning to panic. I need to know she’s physically okay; really fucking angry with me, but still breathing. If something happened to her, I would never forgive myself.

Work is the last thing on my mind as I pace my office. My eyes stay trained out my open door. When I stand in just the right place, I can peer into Emma’s space across the building. I’ve never done it before because it feels like a giant breach of privacy and really creepy. Today, I’m out of fucks to give, searching for any sign the universe can give me that she’s okay. I’ll take the hatred and I’ll take the blame. I have to know she’s all right.