I sit on my couch reading a beautiful and tragic love story about two young women. The tender moments between first love and the tragedy are heart achingly sweet.

My heart feels…broken. My state of being lately is…it’s own tragedy. I don’t think that I can will myself into happiness today. But can I create tender moments for myself? If I cannot stop the ache can I at least elevate into something tender? Something sweet?

The book keeps me company. The couch holds me. It bears the weight of my physical and emotional being with love. The weather is kind—it’s gloominess gives me permission to be thoughtful and melancholy. My home is clean and beautiful and cozy; it invites me to read and rest. My thriving plants add color and life to my surroundings.

Somewhere in me there is a loving competent grown-up who knows he has to be more present; who knows how to love well and be loved; who misses his best friend. He’s the one who wrote this. I hope he stays.

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