That makes it seem like Flo’s bitter. She’s not—she gets it. She’s just lonely, because despite the fact she’s only known Poppy is going, going, gone, for five minutes or so, she already misses her a surprising amount, and because missing Poppy is nowhere near as bad as missing Gray, who has been gone for too long and, really, that’s the crux of the problem. It’s not Poppy leaving, although it’s always hard to lose a friend; it’s that Gray left her long before he should have.

Gray.

Her Gray.

Gray Seaborne.

What a romantic name for a rummin of a man.

She loved him equal parts fiercely and banally, which is the best and most thorough way to love.

Flo sighs.

She misses him so much. People say that, don’t they? I miss him so much it hurts. And it does. At times the emptiness in the house presses down on her until the weight of it turns to a dull ache in her chest and a painful lump in her throat. As if nothing can weigh something. But it can. The weight of his hands not on her hurts.

She’s been told by numerous people that she should try to find someone else. That it’s time. That with the internet these days it’s easy. But how is a woman her age supposed to start again? It’s like this: