The sky is as gloomy as my soul. The drizzle is as depressing as my thoughts. The wind is as cold as my bed was last night as I tossed and turned, missing Cole ferociously.

I gasp, my lungs stuttering as I struggle to breathe.

I miss Cole so much that it’s hard to take in oxygen sometimes. My watch goes off with a light-blue screen and the word BREATHE printed across it, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath for who knows how long. It’s like a band is wrapped around my chest three or four times and compresses me so tightly that there’s no room to move.

No way to keep going on.

My spirit left when he did; my moxie and energy and freaking heart hitchhiked out of my life right along with Cole, preferring to spend eternity with him instead of the other half of my heart—the one inside my body.

That’s how I know this whole thing is fucked. He’s not just some guy I dated or slept with or was interested in. My reaction, my desperate need to connect with him in some form, any form, is visceral. I feel it everywhere and in every part of my life.

I ached when I saw a takeout container in the fridge at home, remembering how he got us expensive pasta for no good reason.

It pains me to take Ethan to baseball practice or see his cleats on the floor or smell the unmistakable smell of leather from his glove. I want to cry every time my phone rings because I know it won’t be him.

He infiltrated every part of my life. I didn’t even realize it was happening. I kept thinking it was manageable—and maybe it was as long as he was here. But now that he’s not? I’m wrecked.

I open my car door and climb out. The cold air slams against my face.

“Well, as much as your little pep talk cheered me up,” I say, “I’ve gotta go meet with the guys.”

Val sighs. “Like this is what you need to be doing today.”

“Yeah, well, the world just keeps going on despite the fact that I’m heartbroken and dealing with a heartbroken child that refused dinner last night. Again. And dealing with . . . everything else,” I say, too tired to detail it out. “I’ll just keep moving on and hoping that someday I’ll look up and it’ll be better. That’s all I can do.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how you stay so optimistic.”

I laugh halfheartedly. “It’s all a lie. I just tell myself that because it’s better than admitting it’s probably going to always hurt.”