I sat cross-legged on the floor of the guest house living room, a thick notebook open in my lap and a pen that felt heavier than it should. Mrs. Juliet had given it to me the day after the proposal—plain leather cover, no frills. “Write what you can’t say out loud,” she’d told me. “Let the paper carry it so your heart doesn’t have to anymore.”
I’d stared at the blank page for twenty minutes before the first words came.
The gala. Samantha’s voice over the speakers. The way the room turned on me like I was something dirty. Chase’s face when he said, “Go home.” Lucy’s hand cracking across my cheek. The motel room that smelled like cigarettes and regret. Three tiny heartbeats inside me and no one to tell.
The pen moved faster. Tears smudged the ink, but I didn’t stop. I wrote about the nigh
