72-Hour Hold by Wren Avery

Flash back to an evening where my life felt like it was coming apart at the seams. The house was a mess—laundry in piles, dishes in the sink, a trail of chaos leading from room to room. Zoe was in the tub, singing to herself, blissfully unaware of the grown-up problems stacking up around us. Finances were tight. The list of things we needed to pay for—school, sports, court, you name it—felt endless. Work was a mess, too: issues popping up left and right, no solutions in sight, just more questions and more stress.

So, I did what any overwhelmed mom would do—I walked into the living room, collapsed into the recliner, and took a deep breath. I grabbed my phone, ready for my usual escape: scrolling social media, playing that ridiculous game where you separate liquids by color in little cups. Something about it lets my brain drift off into a weird science zone—buoyancy, density, anything but real life. For a moment, I could pretend I’d gotten away from it all.

But this time, something different caught my eye—a single dating app icon, staring back at me from my screen. I’d used it before, and honestly, it had only ever brought more drama. I’d downloaded and deleted it so many times, sometimes only scrolling for a few minutes before regretting it and tossing it back into the trashcan of doom.

Yet for some reason, I tapped that little icon. Opened it up. There, in my inbox, was a single message left over from my last resignation from the world of online dating. It was from a guy named Myles, who’d written a genuinely nice message asking me to lunch. I’d never replied.

I stared at the message for a long minute. Didn’t even bother to look back at his profile, photos, nothing. And then—almost on autopilot—I replied: “Sorry Myles, I left the app for a bit, but I would love to go to lunch if you’re still interested. How’s Saturday?”

Maybe the boldest move I’ve ever made in dating, and I did it without thinking. No plan, no reason—just did it. What was I thinking? What possessed me to leap like that, so out of character for me? Looking back, I think I just wanted an out. Something to distract me from the mess, to keep me sane and grounded. Something soft, a place to land. Not just turbo mom, protector, provider—just… me, for a second.There’s more to the story, but I’ll leave it there for now. Back to Myles.

To my surprise, he replied quickly. Lunch on Saturday? Absolutely. We picked a time, and he suggested a few places near my hometown. We settled on one, and—true to form—barely spoke in the days leading up to our date.

Saturday arrived and, honestly, I was no longer in the headspace where a distraction sounded like a good idea. I felt reluctant—didn’t really want to carve out time away from my kids just to go through the motions of being polite, pretending to care when my mind was somewhere else, and then probably splitting the check before heading back home to reality. So, I texted Myles just to make sure he “still wanted to meet up.”

Not only did he want to, but he was already in town at our local mall, holiday shopping. So there went my out. No way I could back out now without being a total jerk.

I put my phone down, looked in the mirror at my large puff of curly (and not in a good way) hair, dark circles, droopy cheeks, and just said, fuck it. I’ll bring myself as I am and get this over with. If anything, maybe he’d see the version of me I viewed as ugly and it would make it easier to let him down when I wasn’t interested.
But, I think we all know that’s not where this story is leading.

I showed up to the place, drove around the block four times until I finally found an open spot to parallel park my bright red, falling-to-pieces mom-van, and then walked around the block in the freezing cold to meet this man. When I walked in, he was sitting at the bar waiting for our table. He saw me and walked over with a big smile. For a second, I could see he wasn’t sure it was me—and honestly, I had the same moment. Somehow, my mind had shrunk him down to a smaller version of himself, but once I focused on the face at the top of this tall man’s body, I knew immediately it was him. And it was like the world slowed down for just a second so I could really take him in. Like that moment before a car crash where you see it coming—but in a good way. Or so I thought. (We’ll get there, and you can be the judge.)

The time glitch ended and Myles gave me a nice, warm hug. I took his seat at the bar while he headed to the restroom. I just sat there thinking, wtf is happening here? There had to be some kind of connection, but I had no idea what I’d just walked into.

Perfect timing: our table was ready. I moved over just as Myles came back. We sat down and started chatting—the standard questions you ask someone you just met: kids, pets, jobs, interests. And the more we talked, the more we had in common. It was like our lives fit together like puzzle pieces. Same taste in music, movies, TV shows.

Needless to say, I left that lunch date intrigued. I had a lot of questions for the Universe and for Myles, but I knew I’d just have to let it all unfold to get the answers. So I did. Well aware and on the lookout for red flags, I decided to open my heart a little and see what the Universe had in store.

Over the next month, Myles continued to intrigue me. He was so well-spoken, articulate, and communicative. When I had questions, he answered them. When I wanted to talk about something, he’d actually listen. And—maybe most importantly—if he had a question, he’d ask. Of course, we disagreed on some things and found a few places where we didn’t quite align, but for the most part, we just seemed to fit.

I felt comfortable talking to him about almost anything—even politics, which I usually avoid because it’s a surefire friendship breaker. But with Myles, it felt safe. He could see both sides of every story, like I could, he was in therapy and would use the things he learned there to help our relationship in a gentle way, and we could usually talk our way to some kind of middle ground.

Despite all of this, our relationship almost felt long-distance sometimes, even though we weren’t that far apart. It was just so hard to find time to get away and actually meet up with both of our busy lives, but mostly mine. Still, we managed the occasional dinner or lunch, and eventually, I invited Myles to my house to hang out and work on a day we were both working from home. We were excited for time together that wasn’t just meeting at a restaurant and then heading home alone.

That day was exactly what I’d hoped for—a nice distraction. We spent the day on the couch, ordered lunch, worked side by side, cuddled between calls, and snuck kisses while we worked. With this new-found co-op time, we started seeing more of each other and even talked about going away for a weekend. We agreed on somewhere within a few hours’ drive, found a weekend we were both free, and Myles booked a cabin for us to get away.

Things kept rolling along—good conversations, small disagreements that we actually resolved with communication (a new and very welcome experience for me). Myles was always calm and understanding. But for some reason, he always seemed nervous around me in person. He’d even mention it sometimes, but it never really went away. Even just hanging out at my house, he was more shut down and polite than he was on the phone. I didn’t think much of it at the time—we were still new, and I know I can be a lot: raw, unfiltered, maybe even intimidating. Usually, that wears off. Anyway, I digress…

As our weekend away approached, a series of unfortunate circumstances led us straight into a battle. We got into an argument about his ex. She’d been trying to stir up trouble ever since she found out he was dating someone, and the situation was just uncomfortable. I stayed out of it, let him handle it as he saw fit, but that day was a hard one for me. When I asked for his support, he wasn’t there—he was busy feeding into her drama, the same games she’d played before. He admitted that he hadn’t fully read my text asking for help even though he replied.

I was frustrated and told him I needed to feel like I mattered, too. I didn’t need all his time, but I needed him to be present when we did have time together—not distracted by unnecessary drama. Of course, he took this the wrong way. Not as a boundary or a chance to work together, but as a criticism. He felt attacked and needed to defend himself. And then, somehow, it was over. At least, in his mind.

I thought we’d argued. He thought we’d broken up.

So later that night, when I asked if we were still going to the cabin the next day, I expected a quick “of course”—just confirmation that we were still good. Instead, I got confusion. Apparently, I had ended it—or at least made it sound like I didn’t want to go to the cabin—when all I thought I was saying was that I needed him to pay attention to me when it was my turn. Suddenly, we were both unsure where we stood, both a little lost in translation.

But after a few more honest messages back and forth, the confusion gave way to relief. It turned out we both still wanted to see where this could go, even after our first real argument—maybe even more so now that we’d survived it. For me, it felt like a weight had lifted, like he was genuinely happy we’d still spend the weekend together and have a chance to move our relationship forward.

I thought we were giving ourselves the chance to see if we could make the adjustments we needed, to see if we even wanted that. I was happy we talked about it, cleared the air, and I felt hopeful for the weekend ahead.

I honestly thought that in 24 hours, we’d be on our way to our happy place.

All of those positive feelings turned right back to confusion about an hour later, while I was waiting for my daughter to finish her therapy session. Out of nowhere, I got a series of three texts from Myles, basically saying we didn’t need to go to the cabin because it didn’t seem like I wanted to go. From where I’m standing, I never said anything that would make it seem like I didn’t want to go. Earlier in the day, during our argument, he was actually the one who suggested we should still go, and I agreed. And when things felt unsure, I was the one who reached out to double-check that we were still on. If anything, it felt like he was looking for an out, so I made sure he knew he had one if he wanted it. I thought I’d made it clear that I wanted to go, but I know my communication isn’t always perfect. So I reassured him again: I want to go. But if he was having second thoughts or reservations, I’d be okay with us not going. Once again, I could sense that little hint of relief from him—and just like that, we were back on track.

He let me know he was with his son and asked if he could come by later and stay over so we could leave as soon as I was ready in the morning. I told him I wanted to spend the evening with my kids so I wouldn’t feel as guilty about leaving them for the weekend, and he gave a quick “I understand.” We agreed he’d come by in the morning, and we’d leave once I was ready.

We chit-chatted for the rest of the night, until about 1am when I decided I was too tired and told him I was going to sleep. The conversation was awkward, disjointed. He seemed all over the place, bouncing from subject to subject, not really acknowledging what I was saying, but engrossed in his own ADHD mission. I chalked it up to stress and the sativa vape pen he said he was smoking. When he’d smoked in the past, he was always funny, unfiltered, so I figured the stress and excitement of the day, and the coming weekend, was just amplifying that for him. I was just happy he was chattier than usual and that things seemed to be back on track.

The next morning, we started texting early. I had a huge list of things to do to get myself, my kids, cats, and my house ready for a weekend away. He had to feed his dogs and pick up a prescription. He told me he was picking up his prescription at 10am, so he’d be by around 11 at the latest. I rushed through dishes, laundry, packed two small bags for myself and a bag for my youngest. Got things ready for the kids, the cats, and somehow managed these superhero moves all by around 10:30am. Amazing. I had 30 minutes or less to relax, and then the adventure would begin.

I put on some mellow music, slipped on my eye massage goggles, and stretched out on the couch. In my mind, I was already in his truck, singing along to the playlist I had made just for our trip as we drove up to the country. We’d planned to grab lunch on the way and stop for groceries, and honestly, the drive itself felt like most of the adventure. For me, the journey—just being together on the open road—was the real experience, and I was looking forward to it the most. There’s something about the freedom of a road trip, the way conversation drifts in and out with the scenery, the anticipation of adventure just ahead. It’s those in-between moments, singing along to favorite songs and sharing quiet glances, that always end up meaning the most to me.

Thirty minutes passed. A couple minutes to 11, I got a text from Myles that there was something he needed to do and he’d be heading to my house soon. No problem—he’d only be 30 minutes late, and there were other things I could do. So I cleaned a bit more, packed a few more things, and picked up my phone 30 minutes later to another excuse. Now my happiness and anticipation were starting to turn into anger and even jealousy. Why couldn’t I be important enough to show up for? What else did he have to do that he couldn’t have done last night, or this morning? Why was it more important than making me sit here waiting?

By the time he finally showed up—an hour and a half late—I wasn’t the same version of myself that I’d been at 11am. The excitement and anticipation had been replaced by hurt and anger. What I really wanted was for him to walk in, see the frustration on my face, and just acknowledge it. I wanted him to apologize, to ask what I needed help with, and then actually help me carry my things to the car. I wanted him to make me feel better, to show me that it mattered he’d made me wait for 90 minutes, that my time and feelings were important. I wanted a hug, some reassurance, maybe even a simple “I’m sorry for making you feel more insignificant after you told me you needed the opposite.” I just wanted to feel like I mattered in that moment—like he understood me, even if he didn’t agree with how I was feeling.

But he did none of those things. Instead, he walked inside, took off his shoes, barely glanced at the pile of bags I’d stacked by the door, and made a beeline for the couch. He told me he’d just smoked his vape in the driveway and, as if that would somehow make everything better, tried to hand me a fancy cinnamon roll—bare, right in his hand. I don’t even like pastry, but it wasn’t just about that. It was the casualness, the complete lack of awareness about how I might be feeling. I managed a semi-polite decline, then walked over to pick up my bags. After I’d carried two bags, my purse, and my pillow down the stairs to his truck by myself, he finally appeared and asked if something was wrong.

The answer was obvious, but I told him anyway: being an hour and a half late without so much as an apology was not okay. But instead of understanding, he doubled down—telling me he didn’t realize the time mattered that much, that I was overreacting. In that moment, it was like my frustration and disappointment were invisible. I was left to carry not just my bags, but the weight of feeling unseen and unimportant, all by myself.

I put my things in the truck, got in the front seat, pulled my knees up to my chest, and stared out the window—trying to collect myself, trying to figure out how to explain why all of this hurt so much. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, I could sort through it in my own head, or at least decide if I was overreacting. Maybe if I just fell asleep, things would reset and we could talk again like normal. But he kept asking what was wrong, pushing for an answer I wasn’t ready to give. Eventually, I told him: he’d shown up an hour and a half late with no apology, he’d already eaten when we were supposed to get lunch together, and I hadn’t eaten all day. I told him I felt like I didn’t matter, that our plans didn’t matter, that I was just there for convenience.

I thought he would understand—maybe even apologize, or at least try to make me feel better. But instead, he insisted he’d done nothing wrong, and somehow, my silence was just as bad as anything I could have said. All I could do was sit there, carrying the weight of it, letting it all play out beside me.

At some point, I must have drifted off for a few minutes—exhausted from the emotional back-and-forth, the hunger, the tension. When I woke up, he asked if I wanted to stop at the McDonald’s at the rest stop. Still holding onto the idea that we’d be at the cabin in about ninety minutes, I declined, thinking fast food would just make me feel worse and probably ruin the weekend. He suggested maybe we could just get dinner near the cabin instead, and I reluctantly agreed, hoping that once we finally got there, things would settle and we could start fresh. I was clinging to the hope that reconnecting at our destination would make all of this—this car ride, this argument—fade into the background.

But the drive just kept dragging on, and so did the tension. He stopped three different times, saying he needed some air, and each time, he’d turn the truck around. I played along, pretending not to notice what was really happening, but every stop came with a new excuse—always circling back to the idea that I didn’t want to go. The truth was, I’d never said that. I was the one who packed my bags, initiated the trip, reassured him, and got in the truck. I wanted to go, and I told him so, over and over. Still, he kept asking if we should just go home. Each time I said yes, I wanted to go, but if he didn’t, I’d understand. Eventually, I was so worn down that I started to question myself. I found myself saying, “Yes, bring me home, please,” and apologizing for how he felt—while he continued to list all the ways I was the problem: my tone, my words, my supposed lack of enthusiasm. It was exhausting, and honestly, I started to feel trapped—too far from home to turn back on my own, stuck in someone else’s spiral.

I tried to stay quiet and polite, just staring out the window at everything passing by—mountains, signs, houses tucked behind the trees. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure which direction we were headed, but my body could always tell when we were moving away from the cabin and back toward home; he always drove a little faster in that direction. There were moments when his driving was fine, but then there were sudden bursts of speeding, swerving, or abrupt slowdowns that made me wonder if we’d even make it to either place. Strangely, instead of panicking, I felt this odd sense of peace. I caught myself thinking, if this is how it ends, the world will somehow keep turning and my kids will be okay. It was almost like I’d made peace with whatever might happen, and that realization alone surprised me.

The closer we got to home, the more the conversation spiraled. He kept bouncing between blaming me and blaming himself, apologizing for everything one minute and then telling me I was the reason he acted the way he did the next. He’d say things like, “You ask for this behavior and that’s why you get it,” or toss out other hurtful, maybe even half-true things—but that’s a story for another time. If the feelings were his, then feelings were king; if they were mine, suddenly logic was all that mattered. If he wanted to yell, there was always a justified reason, but if I so much as raised my voice, I’d get condescended to or told I was overreacting. Every interaction felt like a projection—if I managed to be right about something, it wasn’t what I said that was the problem, it was my tone. If I tried to make a point and he could see its validity, there was always some reason I needed to stop talking. I was stuck in topsy-turvy world, spinning in circles, never able to find the “right” way out.

At one point, right in the middle of listing off all his self-accusations—this strange mix of things I’d actually said, his own guilt, and wild embellishments—he rattled them off rapid-fire: “I’m an asshole for showing up late, I forgot the cough drops,” and then, out of nowhere, “I’m a psychopath,” followed by, “someone paid me to hang out with you.” These weren’t just the things he thought I was upset about; they were a jumble of his own self-loathing and projections, exaggerated and spiraling. That’s when I really started to worry about my safety and how this was all going to end. He even circled back and called himself a psychopath again later, and with every bizarre, unprompted comment, my anxiety ratcheted up a little more. I found myself scanning the road signs, counting down the miles, and quietly rehearsing what I’d do if things got worse. The energy in the truck was so volatile—one minute he’d be apologizing or blaming himself, the next he was lashing out or accusing me of things I couldn’t even wrap my head around. I felt like I was trapped in an endless loop, desperate for the ride to just be over so I could finally breathe again.

I thought back to that moment when I first saw his face and how time seemed to stand still. It was almost as if the universe was signaling that this was a crossroads in my life, that this person would force me to choose which direction I wanted to move. I still don’t know if I made the right or wrong choice here, but that’s something to be explored in the next part—not here, not yet.

Back in the truck, forty minutes from home. We were almost there. I could feel myself already melting into my own bed—alone, with my cats and a bad TV show. Then he asked, “Do you want to stop?” and without thinking, I replied, “I really have to use the bathroom,” because honestly, my bladder was at its absolute limit, and I wasn’t sure I could make it the last stretch and up the stairs. But instead of pulling over, he just said, “I know you wanna get home,” as if that settled it. No bathroom break for me.

So I paused for a second, weighing whether to push back or just let it go. Did I really want to confront him about something as simple as a bathroom stop and risk dragging out this already endless trip? My whole body just answered for me: we’ve got this—forty more minutes to home. So I told him, “Actually, it’s okay. We’re almost there, I can hold it.” And then, as if he hadn’t heard a word, he said, “Well, I thought you wanted food?” I wanted food at 12:30 pm. Now, almost 7 pm, the only thing I wanted more than food (and a bathroom) was to get out of that truck and back into my own house—alone.

So I just let it go. I told him I’d eat at home, even though by then I was beyond hungry and just wanted the whole ordeal to be over. I must’ve mentioned something about his home in passing, because he suddenly replied, “I’m not going home, I’m going to the hospital.” He said he had just found out his mother was in the hospital, but insisted it had nothing to do with his decision to turn around. I was skeptical, so I asked to see the message on his phone to confirm the timing. He looked at his phone for a moment, then admitted he was lying. At that point, I didn’t have the energy to push for the truth or try to untangle his motivations. All I cared about was getting home—somewhere I could finally put down all this emotional baggage, take a breath, and try to process everything that had just happened.

We finally made it. Almost seven hours in that truck—no food, no bathroom breaks, no productive communication—just a blur of tension and exhaustion. I could see my street up ahead and felt myself start to gather my things, ready to bolt at the first opportunity. Earlier, when he’d gotten out for one of his many stops, I’d tried to connect my phone to his truck for music but failed, so I’d settled for headphones instead. At some point, I dropped one in the door jam and put the case in the cupholder between our seats. As we pulled up to my driveway, I grabbed my earbud case, and he stopped at the edge of the drive to ask if I was taking his things. I was appalled by the accusation and honestly confused—where was this even coming from? It felt so out of the blue, as if he was projecting some old suspicion from his past onto me, someone I absolutely was not.

As he pulled up the driveway, he mumbled something about not being a kleptomaniac, and that was it for me. I snapped, told him I’d never steal his shit, got out of the car, collected my things, and started to walk toward the door. He called out to ask me if I had everything, I said yes, and pointed out that he’d dropped something, then turned, held my breath, and walked away.

Standing just inside my front door, I heard the automatic deadbolt latch into place and all the tension in my body seemed to release. Still holding my backpack, duffel, giant purse, and pillow, I finally let myself breathe. It felt like I’d just outrun the big boss in some twisted video game—I was home, I was safe, and for a moment, everything else just faded away. The silence of my house was a comfort, the weight of the day slowly lifting as I realized I’d made it through. For now, the storm was on the other side of the door, and I could finally rest in the fragile peace of my own space.

I lugged my unused belongings back upstairs to my second-floor apartment—a space that felt colder and emptier than usual, since I’d turned the heat down before leaving. I dropped my bags near my bed and tossed my pillow onto the mountain of pillows already there. Then I plopped down on the couch, in the exact spot where Jeff had sat when this whole nightmare began, and just laid there. Feet up on the armrest, head on the cushion, I listened: to my heartbeat, my breath, and the voices rolling around in my head.

They asked if this was my fault. How this was my fault. What did I miss? Why did I still get in that truck, even though part of me wanted to call it off as soon as he was late? How broken am I that I accepted this reality and still hoped it would work? My heart was still racing—beating hard in my chest, echoing in my ears, making me light-headed. I took a deep breath and tried to clear my head. A tall order, and not one I could pull off just yet. But I was able to shift my focus: first to the cushion under my head—the way it supported me, even in its ratty condition. I felt grounded in that moment, reminded that comfort doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. From there, I shifted my focus to, “I’m home, I’m safe,” then to, “It wasn’t my fault,” and finally all the way to, “I’m proud of how I reacted—and how different that is from the past.” My breath deepened, my heart rate slowed, and I was able to look deeper.

Just because this wasn’t my fault doesn’t mean I had no part in how it played out. Let’s start at the beginning. I mentioned in Part 1 that the moment we met, time slowed and I knew it was a crossroads moment—a connection was made, and it seemed pretty clear where. The confusion lies in the type of connection: was it a soulmate, a karmic tie, a lesson, a trauma bond, or something else? (For the record, in spiritual and psychological circles, connections can be soulmates, twin flames, karmic partners, trauma bonds, or simply “seasonal people”—each with their own purpose and lesson.)

From what I knew about Jeff, he seemed like a good guy. But the more I got to know him, the more I questioned whether we were trauma bonding or here to teach each other a lesson—a type of meeting I usually lose at. And yet, I still forged on. Why? It’s not that I’m a sucker for punishment. I’ve often thought it’s because loneliness is the worst feeling for me and I just want someone there, but this time I went in knowing that about myself, and I made sure to take things slow. But then I got hooked, and when things started to go bad and the red flags started flying, I pretended not to see them because I could still see all the good around them.

This was an epic lesson for me: nothing good is born out of desperation. No one will save you, and the idea of starting something new out of sadness, grief, or pity only prolongs the road to happiness. The Universe threw me a giant distraction—a giant test—and I failed. But failure isn’t what you think. Failure can be an epic win if you actually learn the lesson intended. And I like to think this experience has finally etched that message into me. I feel grateful to be writing this part of the book and telling this story of failure to you all. I hope it cushions the lesson for you, at least a little, knowing that when your time comes, you aren’t alone in it. You haven’t failed unless you refuse to see the point. Move on, do better, be strong.

I also touched on something else in Part 3 that I promised to come back to. During the barrage of mumbling and accusations flying at me, a lot of it definitely resonated. Many of those things were words I’d heard before—insults and accusations I’ve spent years of therapy working through, proving to myself that I’m not those things anymore. Some things I once was, but I choose not to be now. So hearing someone call out every insult that’s ever hurt a woman in his life—whether relevant, true, or wildly off base—still stings. I had to go through each accusation in my mind, one by one, to see if it was true.

At one point in the beginning of our argument, I raised my voice. He called me out immediately. I admitted it and apologized, explaining that I was angry and just wanted to be heard. An hour later, he told me I denied ever yelling. Do I have trouble controlling my temper? Sometimes, yes. It’s something I’ve spent a lot of time and energy working on, and honestly, I think I’ve made real progress. But yelling once—after being provoked, after being talked over repeatedly—doesn’t erase all the good. All the times I waited for him to finish talking after he interrupted me, all the patience I showed, none of that mattered. It was just that one moment I lost it, and suddenly I was “the problem.” It took time to pick that apart and remind myself that, while my reactions weren’t perfect, overall, it was a win—a valiant display of self-control, self-preservation, and forgiveness for my own errors in judgment and for ignoring the red flags.

After all of it, I’m left with the understanding that healing isn’t linear. Sometimes the test comes when you least expect it, disguised as possibility and hope. Sometimes you pass by walking away, and sometimes you pass by surviving, learning, and choosing differently next time. I didn’t get the love story I wanted, but I did get a clearer picture of what I deserve—and what I’ll never settle for again.

So I sat there, the hum of the refrigerator in the background, the weight of my bags still scattered on the floor, and let myself feel it all. The ache, the relief, the exhaustion, the stubborn flicker of hope that maybe next time will be different. I thought about Blair—about what it means to show her what strength looks like, even when it’s messy. I thought about the woman I was a year ago, and the woman I’m becoming now.

The night stretched out in front of me, quiet and raw. I didn’t have answers, just a little more clarity and a little more resolve. Maybe that’s what healing really is: not a straight line, but the courage to keep showing up for yourself, even when your heart is bruised and your faith in love feels paper thin. I wrapped myself in a blanket, let my eyes drift shut, and promised myself that tomorrow, I’d begin again—wiser, softer, and a little less willing to ignore those red flags.

A few hours after he dropped me off, I got a text from Myles:
“I lied about who was in the hospital. I didn’t want to tell you, I was bringing myself in.”

I stared at my phone, reading those words over and over. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. At first, it felt surreal—like the story wasn’t done with me yet, like the universe was handing me one last twist just as I’d started to settle back into myself. I sat there in the dim light of my living room, the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders, and let the ache settle in.

Relief came first. Relief that I’d trusted my instincts, that I was home and safe, that the locked door between us was real and solid. But then guilt crept in—had I missed signs of how much he was struggling? Had I been so busy protecting myself that I failed to see how close he was to his own edge? I thought about every moment in that truck: the spiraling, the accusations, the way his pain seemed to overflow and spill into every corner of our conversation. I realized I’d been so focused on surviving the storm that I hadn’t noticed how hard he was fighting to keep his own head above water.

Anger followed, sharp and hot. Anger at the manipulation, at the lies that twisted my reality and made me question my own sanity. Anger that his struggle became another layer of confusion, another thing I was supposed to carry without warning. But beneath the anger was sadness—deep, aching sadness. For him, for me, for the version of us that never got to exist. For the hope I kept alive long after it should have flickered out. For the girl who still wanted to believe that love could save someone, even when she knew better.

I replayed every moment: the drive, the accusations, the tension, the way I’d clung to the idea that if I just loved harder, or listened better, or forgave more, maybe things would have turned out differently. I was searching for clues, for missed signals, for moments I could have done something different. I remembered the way his hands shook on the steering wheel, the way his words tumbled out in a rush, the wild swings between apology and accusation. I remembered how hard I tried to hold onto myself, to not get swept away by someone else’s storm, to draw a line between empathy and self-preservation.

In the quiet of my apartment, I let myself grieve—not just for what didn’t work, but for the way we both lost our way. I thought about Blair, about the example I want to set for her. That strength sometimes means walking away, that loving someone doesn’t mean losing yourself, that you can care deeply and still choose yourself in the end.

The truth is, the aftermath isn’t always neat. There’s no perfect closure, no bow to tie around the mess. There’s just the work of moving forward—of forgiving, of learning, of choosing again. I don’t know what happens next for Myles, and maybe I never will. What I do know is that I will keep showing up for myself, even when it’s hard, even when it hurts.

I wish I could say I found perfect closure, that I forgave and forgot and moved on without looking back. But the reality is quieter, more honest: I am still unpacking, still feeling, still growing. And maybe that’s enough.

If you’re reading this and you’re somewhere in your own aftermath, I hope you give yourself permission to feel it all. To grieve, to rage, to forgive—yourself most of all. The story goes on, and so do we. Maybe a little wiser, a little softer, and with a heart that knows its own worth.