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"Among other things." She gives me that look, the one that says 'I'm here for you, spill it'.
"Jen," I start and then stop. How do you tell your best friend that your heart feels like it's been through a shredder?
"Kell, you're amazing. You know that, right?" She doesn't wait for my nod. "You're talented, you're gorgeous, and any guy would be lucky to have you."
She’s laying it on thick, bless her. The thing is, all I can think about is how none of that seemed to matter to Greg.
"Greg's...he's got his own stuff, you know? It's not about you."
"Feels pretty personal when you get dumped because you're too much to handle," I mutter, picking at a loose thread on the cushion.
"Kelly," Jenna says firmly, grabbing my hand with her surprisingly strong grip. "You are not too much. You are enough. More than enough. And if Greg can't see that, then he's the one missing out."
I want to believe her, I really do. So, I nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. "Yeah."
"Besides," she continues, "you've got your work. Your art. That's part of who you are, and it's incredible. Focus on that. Grow from this. Because no man should define your worth."
Her words are like a cold splash of water, shocking me out of my pity party. She's right. I'm a graphic designer extraordinaire. I can't let Greg—or the lack of him—turn my life upside down.
"Okay," I say, more to myself than to her. "Okay."
That night, after Jenna leaves, I sit at my drafting table and lose myself in lines and colors, shapes and shadows. It's therapeutic, pouring everything I feel into something tangible. I'm good at this. Damn good.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for now.
Greg
Across the city, in the small hours where everything seems possible or hopeless depending on your brand of insomnia, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, a man wrestling with ghosts.
"Fight," Mike had said. And fight I shall.
I reach for my phone, hands shaking—not with fear this time, but with something like determination. I punch in Kelly's number, staring at it like it's a grenade pin.
"Hey," I whisper into the voicemail, her bright, cheery greeting a stark contrast to the gravel in my voice, "it's Greg. I...fuck, I'm sorry. For everything. I'm getting help, Kel. For the PTSD. For us, if you'll still have me."
The words hang there, naked and raw in the silence of my room. It's done. Ball's in her court.
I don't know if she'll call back, if those bridges are ash or just a little scorched. But hope, that treacherous, beautiful thing, starts to unfurl in my chest, a stubborn green shoot pushing through the cracks in the concrete.
Maybe it's foolish. Maybe it's brave. But it's a start. And right now, it's all I've got.
CHAPTER
SIX
Greg
The door clicks shut behind me, a soft echo in the empty space of Dr. Marshall's office. I'm here again—same time, same place—but something feels different today. The weight on my chest isn't as crushing. Maybe it's because I've finally decided to stop running from the chaos in my head.
"Greg, how has your week been?" Dr. Marshall asks, her voice smooth like the jazz playing low in the background.
"Better," I confess. "I dusted off those old project files Kelly and I were working on."
"Good to hear," she nods, tapping her pen against her notepad. "And how does that make you feel?"
"Like I'm taking back control." The words come out stronger than I expect. It's the truth. Working on the project with Kelly...it was the first thing that made sense when I got back from hell overseas.
Dr. Marshall smiles, encouraging. "That's progress. Remember, healing is a journey."
