You could miss someone, but it did no good to fixate on loss. I wished I had the ready words of a Breeder or the ability to comfort with a soft touch. I didn't. Instead I had daggers and determination. That would have to do.
My heart should be breaking, too, but there comes a point when you’re so inured to loss that you no longer feel the lash.
This is not a love story. It is my life, and as such, there is love, loss, war, death, and sacrifice. It's about things that needed to be done and choices made. I regret nothing.
There’s a hollow where he used to be, and it echoes with self-imposed loss.
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