When I get back to my apartment, I reach for my journal, needing to write in it like a plant needs light and water. My fingers itch as I huddle under my blankets, ready to crumble under the weight of them, ready to fall apart in the privacy of my own space.

Floral journal in one hand, blue ball-point pen in the other, I prepare myself to bleed on the page for the man I just walked away from. I flip it open and look at the first page—the list—like I do every time. It usually brings me peace. A sense of purpose. A way to manifest the things on my list into reality.

But this time, it brings a crushing ache to my chest and hot, stinging tears to my puffy eyes. Because Griffin has crossed off and initialed the one thing he swore he never could. Make love. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

And what hurts the most is he’s not even wrong.

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