About The Book
It is hard to accept the loss of the love we once had. There is a constant struggle between confronting the pain and the flashing memories together. Within the thick fog of grief, one would often wonder, When will I ever be fine again?
Mike is struggling with his grief from losing the love of his life. To be able to confront his loss, he keeps a diary where he channels his pain by writing messages for his lost love. Each chapter is introduced with a monthly entry that resonates the emptiness he feels for each day without her in his life. Through his diary, Mike walks readers through the psyche of a man moving on from his grief of his lost love.
“I didn’t know what I was thinking,” you started. “I was just scared that we were getting too close . . . maybe. I don’t even know,” you said, starting to cry a little more. “All I know is, when you didn’t text back Saturday night, it scared me that I might never talk to you again.”
“I’m sorry. I was in a movie when you sent the text, and by the time I got out, it was late and didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?” you asked, dabbing at your eyes again.
I pulled you in close to hug you, my head resting on your shoulder. “Amy, I love you. There’s nothing to forgive. I want you in my life, always.”
With that, you hugged back hard and wept. When your crying slowed, I turned my head slightly so I could kiss your cheek. I tasted the warm, salty tears that had made their way down your face. I then moved to your other cheek and kissed it, wanting to kiss all the tears away.
As we watched TV, I could feel her moving closer to me. I wasn’t totally sure what to do at first. I eventually went for broke and put my arm around her. With that, she nuzzled into my arm, and before I knew it, we were kissing. She tasted sweet, as if she had been just eating my favorite candy. We kissed hard for several minutes. Mary was almost as aggressive as June had been that time in her room.
June . . . Fuck! What was I thinking? I had a girlfriend! Why was I here making out with Mary when I had a girlfriend I should be making out with?
“How the hell can you do this to me?” she roared through gritted teeth.
“It just . . . happened,” I replied; my head hung a little low.
As I looked down, I noticed her clenched hands and, more importantly, her right hand, which had something pointy in it. Could it be?
Yes it was. It was a butter knife.