Darkness is all I can see, the drawn shades blocking out the early morning light. The warmth of my bed pulls my body back towards sleep, but the blaring beep beep beep of my alarm clock keeps my mind awake. I want to ignore the world for just one day, much like every day, yet my feet move to the floor anyway. 

The hot water pouring from the shower head burns the surface of my skin, loosening the muscles underneath. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my mind and shut out the negative thoughts, but it doesn’t work. It never does, just as the feeling of loneliness poking the forefront of my brain never ceases. 

The kitchen table sits empty apart from my uneaten bowl of cereal. I’ve been staring at it, trying to convince my stomach to crave it. I pick up my spoon only to set it back down. I watch the cereal bits float in all directions. I do this every morning; fix a bowl of cereal, only for it to go soggy and pour it down the drain. I need to eat, but my stomach clenches in disgust at the sight of the food. I force down a glass of water, but even that is unappetizing. I set the glass and a full bowl into the sink. 

The highway on the way to work is already backed up with traffic. I sit in my car, staring blankly out the windshield at the car in front of me. The sky is gray, overcast by rainclouds. Drizzling raindrops pitter-patter quietly on the glass, so I keep the wipers on the lowest speed setting. My foot releases the brake to inch up every few seconds as the traffic crawls up the road. The morning radio show is on. It used to be my favorite, our favorite. Now, it’s just background noise. It means nothing without him in the passenger’s seat. 

My desk at work is empty of anything to show that it belongs to me. I removed any sign of myself when it happened. As the clock strikes eight, I go into autopilot, working quietly until lunch hour. Emails from employees wanting to file complaints about their coworkers fill my screen, but I don’t put any real effort into anything. 

At one, I make my way to the break room with Angela. We sit in the same seats as always and I place my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the table. I take small bites, forcing myself to eat it, knowing I’ll only throw it up later.  

“Vi, you wouldn’t believe how amazing that new restaurant downtown is. Marley and I went over the weekend. You know her, right? From the accounting department?” Angela asks. 

“I think so,” I say. 

“I think we’re going to go again this weekend, then maybe catch a movie after. You should come. It’s been forever since you’ve come to a night out.” 

I sigh, staring down at my sandwich. It was true, we used to see each other all the time; it’s my fault that changed. “I don’t know… can I take a rain check?” 

Angela looks at me, sadness embedded in her expression. She glances at my barely-eaten sandwich, and I can almost see the concern radiating off her.

Her gaze shifts from one of concern to one of sympathy. “Violet, he’s not coming back.” 

Her words hurt, my heart aching as she says them. My breath catches in my throat, causing me to cough. Of course, she was right, but I didn’t want to believe it. It’s been four months since the accident, but the wound on my heart still felt as fresh as it did when I got the call. “It still feels like yesterday,” I tell her, my voice catching in my throat on the last word. 

Angela smiles gently and puts her hand on top of mine. “Have you thought about talking to someone? A therapist, maybe?” 

“No, I already told you I don’t want to do that.” 

“I know you don’t, but maybe you should. You don’t look well, Vi.” 

I glance once again at my sandwich, still unfinished. 

“You need to be taking care of yourself,” Angela says. 

I look up at her, knowing she has a point. I’ve noticed the pallor of my skin and the frailness of my hands. More hair has started to come out in the shower. The thought of seeing a therapist makes my stomach drop a little, and I start picking at my cuticles subconsciously. I’ve never been good at talking about my feelings, so the idea of doing it on purpose sounded like a nightmare. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

——–

The full bowl of cereal I set in the sink this morning mocks me. 

You need to be taking care of yourself. 

Angela’s words won’t leave my head. She just wants what’s best for me, I know that, but it’s hard to take care of myself when I don’t see the point. My life hasn’t functioned the same without him, any routine or consistency I had died when he did. 

I walk into what used to be our room and sat on the bed. I haven’t slept in here since that day; I’ve occupied the guest room for the last four months. I look around the room, my eyes falling on the deep orange armchair in the corner. His blue blazer was draped over the back of it.

It was warm enough for him to leave it home that day.

I haven’t found it in myself to move it, I think doing so would make this all real. I pick it up, holding the fabric to my nose. I inhale, tears flooding my eyes instantly because his scent is gone. The weight of his absence floods in, making me fall into the chair. I sob quietly into the blazer. After a minute, I move to the bed, crawling under the blanket with the blazer still in my grasp. I cry myself to sleep, desperately wishing he was lying next to me. 

——–

Waking up in our bed is more painful than I would have imagined. Turning over and seeing his spot vacant devastates me–the knife in my heart only twisting more violently. I start crying, but this time I remember Angela’s words. 

I get up from the bed and walk into the living room to find my laptop. Opening it, I pull up Google, typing the words I’ve been avoiding for the last 125 days: 

Grief therapists in Seattle.