“Mackenzie,” Ellis’ voice cut through, bringing me out of my memory. “Where did you go?”

“Sorry. I was just thinking about something.” I grabbed a towel and began to wipe down the counter. “I need to get back to work. Enjoy your beer, Ellis.”

I heard him call my name as I rushed from behind the bar, through the busy restaurant, and up to my office, struggling to breathe. Even after all the times I had tried to convince myself, I knew I wasn’t over Tyler Burnham. I doubted whether I ever would be.

~~~~~~~~~~

THAT NIGHT, I TOSSED and turned for hours, a thousand thoughts running through my head. I had kept my true feelings buried for months, forbidden from communicating what was going through my mind to the one person who needed to know. I had let it all fester, but it wasn’t until I met another man who seemed to be interested in me that I realized how messed up I still was. I was desperate for closure, to finally tell him what I was feeling…even if it fell on deaf ears.

Rummaging through my bag, I grabbed my laptop and booted it up. I typed in the email address I had for Tyler and hovered over the keyboard for what seemed like an eternity, my hands shaking at the prospect of him reading this. I needed him to know how much his lies hurt me. I needed him to feel my pain. I couldn’t shoulder it all on my own anymore.

The words I had thought on a daily basis for the past several months filtered from my head to the laptop, the visualization of weeks of pent up feelings therapeutic and soothing the fire within.

I don’t even know where to begin. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do.

Worse, I don’t know who I am.

Maybe I never did.

It’s past three o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. I’m exhausted, run down.

Heartbroken.

The fact you lied to me isn’t what hurts now. I’ve stopped feeling the pain from that. It’s knowing no one can replace you. It’s knowing I’ll search for someone else to give my heart to for the rest of my life and never find him.

It’s knowing lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.

It’s knowing you’re my turtledove.

It’s knowing I’m through.

I met a guy tonight. An attractive, charming man. He made me smile. He made me laugh. He made me forget about everything for a minute.

But I felt nothing…because of you.

I felt no butterflies.

I felt no spark.

I felt no lightning strike.

Because. Of. You.

It’s been nearly four months.

One hundred and ten days, to be exact.

When I first met you, I had a feeling you would be the one person who could break down my walls. I knew you’d be the one to make me feel, something no one has been able to do for years. But I also knew you’d be the one to ruin me. You told me as much. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to think something so evil, so hurtful, so ugly could come out of something I thought was so fucking beautiful.

And that was my love.

I loved you, Tyler. Unconditionally. Completely. Wholeheartedly.

But you deceived me. Because of that, I should be over you. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve done everything I could to convince myself I don’t care about you. That I’m over you. That I hate you. That I despise everything about you.

I should, ya know.

I should hate the way you looked in your tuxedo the night you asked me to marry you.

I should hate the way my name used to roll off your tongue and make me shiver.

I should hate the way you used to snore.

I should hate the way you used to smile at me unlike the way you smiled at anyone else.

I should hate the way you used to wrap your arms around me and make me feel like I finally had a home.

I should hate the way you used to make me laugh.

I should hate the way you used to make me feel alive.

You did everything right. You said exactly what I needed to hear when I needed to hear it. You made me fall in love with you. You took my love from me, and I’ll never be able to get it back. I’ll never be able to give anyone else all my love. I’ll never be able to experience that unmistakable feeling of absolute euphoria just from being around them. For that, I should forget about you.

The truth is, no matter how much I say I’m over you, you’re still on my mind.

The truth is, despite it all, I don’t hate you.

The truth is, despite it all, you made me feel, and I’d rather have felt something so fucking intense for you than to never have that memory at all.

The truth is, despite it all, I still love you. And I always will.

Seeing the words on the screen in front of me made the tears streaming down my cheeks fall with more intensity. My sobs wracked through my body, and I could barely see the screen through my fuzzy vision. Choking on my own cries, I hovered the mouse over the SEND button.

Could I really do this? Could I really send this email? Would it make me feel any better? Would it make the heartache hurt less?

Would he even get it?

Would he even care?

When you hit rock bottom, there’s nowhere else to go but up. I was at rock bottom. I was at the lowest of any low I could remember. Since leaving Tyler, there had been a permanent ache in my chest, which had only grown more intense over the days and months with no communication from him.

Realizing I had nothing to lose by sending it, I clicked on the button, the whooshing sound of my email being sent causing me to immediately regret the decision. My heart thumped in my chest and I prayed for a message telling me the email was undeliverable, but that never happened.

The rest of the night, I stayed awake, waiting for an answer.

I didn’t know why I expected one.

I didn’t know why I hoped for one.

But I did.

I never got one.

Tyler

“DROP YOUR ELBOW JUST a little,” I instructed a Sudanese boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten, as he stood next to a makeshift home plate. “Keep your eye on the ball. Then knock it out of the park.”

“Like Fenway Park?” the little boy asked in a thick African accent.

I laughed. “Exactly.”

“I’m Babe Ruth then?”

“No. Definitely not. He’s a traitor who went to play for the Yankees.”

“Boo, Yankees,” a chorus of voices sounded around me. I looked up, laughing at how easily they picked up on the rivalry between the Red Sox, my team of choice, and the Yankees. Turning my attention back to the little boy, I said, “You’re David Ortiz. Big Papi.”

“Okay. Big Papi. I’ll hit a big slam.”

I chuckled. “Grand slam, but close enough,” I said. “Okay, you ready?”

The little boy bent his knees and held the bat as I had taught him, turning his head toward the pitcher’s mound. I nodded to Eli and he tossed an easy pitch. I stood back and waited in anticipation, as if this was game seven of the World Series.

Since I had arrived here, I had been teaching a group of young boys and girls everything I knew about American sports. I occasionally helped in the medical tent, but everything was well under control, so Eli and I spent most of our time playing soccer, basketball, and baseball, my personal favorite. It was challenging, considering many of these young kids had suffered injuries, some requiring amputation, while trying to escape the civil unrest in their home country. But instead of one kid trying to stand out and be better than another, they helped each other, even when they were on different teams. Adults could learn something from watching these kids interact with each other. It was humbling and eye-opening.