I hadn't dated anyone in five years.

After Emily, it stopped making sense.

People tried, my sister especially.

Even co-workers I barely talked to invited me to things,

always with a look that hovered somewhere between pity and optimism.

Most of it ended the same way,

someone asking if I thought about therapy or maybe trying again.

I appreciated it. I really did.

But it felt rushed, like everyone was trying to get me to move forward before I had time

to pick my feet up. There wasn't anything obviously wrong. I went to work, replied to text eventually,

and even smiled when I was expected to. But with people, I kept things at a distance.

I couldn't let anything real in without feeling like something would break open.

Most days, I told myself I was tired.

That was easier than admitting I didn't know what to do with the space she left behind.

New people felt like stand-ins for something I couldn't recreate,

and the idea of trying again made me feel dishonest,

like pretending a wound had closed when I could still feel it every time I turned my head the wrong way.

For the first few months, I used to stop and talk to her.

Same turn off just past the tree line, a quiet spot with a bit of sun in the mornings.

I bring coffee sometimes and sit in the grass with her, pulling out a handful of blades

to play with.

I tell her about work, about my sister's latest attempt to set me up and how awkward it felt.

...