“I can’t love you, if you won’t let me.

Can’t touch me, if you don’t try.

I can feel you

I know that you’re ready to take it to the other side.”

~ “Love Will Keep Us Alive” The Scorpions

The picture of Anya in Jackson’s arms, with a huge smile on her face, as if he had never hurt her a day in his life, captured my struggle for the last twenty-two months—an emotional hardship beyond explanation. A battle Anya told me was all in my head. Now I understood why Jackson fought for her—no matter how many times he dishonored her; he still felt her love. While I was led in the beginning to believe she never kissed him or said “I love you” back to him. Sure, she might’ve done it a few times when she was upset with him, but nothing even close to what she represented to me. I knew the devastating potential a pic like this, that had to have existed on a wall or shelf in her home, could have on me, yet I continued to seek them out. I needed to be torn apart and they held the thing she kept from me—the truth. Unfortunately, this was a picture I needed to see when we first met—not after my soul became vested in her. If I had known this is what she was really proud of in life, it could’ve saved mine. Instead, she decides to shove it right in my face like I deserved to feel any of this—like I was the one who cheated on her and his kids several times.

While she accused me of forming my own truths and conclusions, she was busy memorializing moments that misrepresented everything she ever told me about her husband. Even if I asked how she could post this picture for the world to see, she would’ve continued to do it anyway and keeping me blind to the truth. After throwing down two Vicodin to avoid driving to the bridge, I reminded myself that she likely did it for her kids and was forced to. Hoping beyond hope, I just never wanted to believe a picture like that could exist when the reality was many of them did. Anya proved that money was both her master and servant. She could cry “but my kids” for days on in, but without Jackson’s money, she would’ve been long gone. After he cheated on her, she even told me she stayed because she couldn’t raise her kids on her own. She couldn’t give them the life Jackson did and that’s why she stayed and took pictures with him regardless of the men she brought into her life.

An institution I used to hold in the highest regard, marriage was now the biggest sham on the planet—basically, just a form of legal prostitution. Having a family used to be the most beautiful thing to me—everything I ever dreamed and wanted. Now, having a family was the rock people hid behind to either network with or bring legitimacy to themselves. People would never respect a man without a family over a married man who was a father. If Anya could stay with Jackson after all we shared, she could’ve never known real heartbreak. She only pretended to so she could repair her ego, and I bit on the line she threw like a big mouth Grouper. All this time I believed to have a special love—one not created to hurt kids, but to raise them up. Although I blamed Anya for misleading me, my belief in something that even she knew didn’t exist was to blame. I couldn’t say I wasn’t at fault—having a lifetime of failures that should’ve prevented me from ever trusting her. It was my choice to ignore my past and to take a leap of faith into a boiling river. If she truly wanted me to let her go, all she had to do was show me that picture, and I would’ve disappeared forever. That picture told me all that ever really mattered to her, and I would’ve been able to salvage my life. It would’ve been easy to let us go because I’d know it wasn’t me who blew it. For her to post this pic after all we shared, under any circumstances, was something I’d expect from Satan, not Anya.

I considered the possibility this was likely a trap—to get me to respond so Jackson could build a case against the man who honored his wife and made her happy. Maybe this wasn’t her profile and it was set up by their neighborhood police official to trap me? If they would install a chip in her phone, how could I put it past them? What also made the possibility of it being a fake profile account was the fact Jackson had his own Facebook account but wasn’t even one of her Facebook friends. All my married friends on Facebook were friends with their spouses, and I was friends with both. Why weren’t Anya and Jackson Facebook friends? Had he not yet accepted her friend request? If I were to tell my mother about this pic, would she have also told me to not read into it? Or did she only tell me not to read into things that were positive? I refused to believe the words of my mother and my therapist—they’ve never been in the same room with us.

After seeing all I hoped to never see, I started talking out loud to myself—as if Anya stood right in front of me.

Bottom line is this Anya, if you felt I was pressuring you. If you felt that what I said at times were threats, if you felt I was hurting you by being upset that I couldn’t get a promise from you to be together—I’m sorry, but you couldn’t have been in love with me. Sure, it felt like love to you, but the only reason you were so in love with me was because I let you remain in your marriage. That’s not being in love, Anya—love conquers all. When you’re truly in love with someone, you don’t care what others think. When you’re truly in love with someone, you don’t decide to stay with someone else. The only reason you fell in love with me was because you thought I’d be okay with this arrangement and let you stay without an argument—as if my feelings would never grow beyond the first night we met. This same thing happened to me with a receptionist at my old job. I got a sob story (“my boyfriend hits me”) just like you did (“my husband has cheated on me four times”) and then she gave me an excuse as to why we couldn’t be together (“I’m still going through emotional damage”) like you did (“my kids”). Then it all got clarified when I learned the truth; she was involved with the Company’s VP and you are staying because of Jackson’s ability to provide when you cried “I’m married!” when I threatened to tell him—the day I learned the hardest truth I’ve ever had to learn. The fact you would stay and even tell me maybe it would “help your marriage”, was beyond insulting but all the proof I needed--that should’ve never been an option for someone who loved me as much as you claimed to. If this wasn’t true, my words would’ve never been described as “pressure” and “threats”. All you had to do was make me a promise we both deserved, if your love for me was true. The truth was you only fell in love with me because you thought I would let you stay. It took me a long time, but I finally got wise and brave enough to learn a truth I never thought I’d ever have to seek. When you threatened me with “harassment and stalking, turned my name over to a neighborhood police official, and threatened me with “people”, that was all I needed to know about your “love” for me—a love for only yourself. That’s not being in love with someone, but because of the stupid man you chose who believed in it, you received love in return.

Feeling more lost and unrecognizable with each pill I swallowed to mask the emotional toll her “love” had taken on me, my sanity went sideways. With the truth drilling me deeper than I ever wanted to go, her profile picture stole my ability to pretend my fears weren’t real. Vicodin and the faint hope of being wrong was my only saving grace. My therapist’s words played in my head like a Hiroshima bomb—"she’s made it perfectly clear that she isn’t going to leave”. If her words were correct if not prophetic, finding a way to pretend she was dead to me, not literally but figuratively, became paramount. Even with the truth in my face, I fought back against giving up on her. The picture was impossible to deny, but could she be that evil? I just couldn’t believe I’d ever fall in love with an evil woman. This Facebook profile just couldn’t be hers—it had to be setup by Jackson to trap me into contacting her. Jackson wanted me to hate her—he wanted me to think she was the one behind it all. After that picture initially breaking me, and although the possibility existed this was Anya’s Facebook account, I couldn’t believe after Anya knew how much I questioned things that she'd ever come clean like this. There was nothing normal about our love in the first place so why would I, or anyone else, try to put it in normal terms? With her version of love still evident in my bedroom, I refused to believe that she didn’t love me—she held onto my necklace for a reason. She was forced to put that picture up otherwise she would’ve sent my necklace back to me by now.

Somehow through the chaos, I landed an interview with a company just walking distance from my apartment. I met with three different people in the company’s accounting and sales departments and left the interview with a really good feeling. It had to be an act of divine intervention for me to even put on a suit on again, but Vicodin did wonders. I had to land another job before sending Anya any letter—it would give her the impression I wasn’t falling apart at the seams. It worried me that mentally, I didn’t know if I was ready to go back to work, especially relying on a drug to get me through the day. I’d have to completely change this life I’ve gotten used to. In the meantime, I kept writing in my journal to work through all my emotions. If I planned to write her, I had to keep my negative emotions in check.

When you wanted to see me in San Diego, I was there. When you wanted me to come to Laguna Beach, I was there. When you wanted me to come up to San Francisco, I was there. Whenever you needed or wanted me, I was there. I gave you all of me, and if that wasn’t enough, I’d find a way to give you more.

I then found myself examining Katie’s profile picture again, the one I saved to my desktop, wondering who took the picture and how the marriage proposal was planned. When I first saw the picture, it never occurred to me it was a marriage proposal—it was not a traditional wedding proposal in any sense of the word, but a perfect snapshot of what was yet to come. To see how Jackson proposed to Anya, on seated ass instead of bended knee, and Anya happily accepting, told me they both never believed in love. Worst yet, Katie likely held her father’s disrespectful proposal in the highest regard, showing it off proudly to family and friends. In my mind, the picture provided all the things a marriage proposal should never be. It was clear back then that Anya believed love was unrealistic, not just marriages, and she willingly exchanged disrespect for social status. Being respected and honored never mattered to her and she likely knew vows were only made to be broken eventually. She didn’t want to be a nagging girlfriend because Jackson made her feel valued and independent. Knowing she was eleven years his junior, and she was nineteen when she met him, he was better suited to be seated there next to Chris Hansen, not the love of my life. Would he be fine with Katie dating a thirty-year-old man on her nineteenth birthday? Anya was still an impressionable teenager when he met her and if she felt pressured not to be a nagging girlfriend in the fear of losing him and the friends she made through him, then she was with him for all the wrong reasons.

Anya had to have known from day one where this marriage was headed and to share this moment with her daughter drove her mindset even further home—she taught her kids money and things did lead to happiness. That being honored and respected didn’t matter because love was unrealistic anyway. I was torn between anger and compassion for her. How could she fall in love with me knowing who she was? That being respected and honored didn’t mean much to her? That she always believed money and things led to happiness. Did she feel pressure to say “yes” because of how he arranged it, inviting friends and maybe even family on his boat? Was she going to say “no” in front of everyone? It just broke my heart to see her so excited to say “yes” because in a perfect world, that should’ve been me and never Jackson. After all we shared, I just couldn’t believe she’d allow Katie to post it to her Facebook account.

I still held out hope, even as the evidence and opinions stacked up against me, that Anya still believed in us. I kept my phone with me at all times, even sleeping with it just in case she got drunk and wanted to run. I googled her often, searching for hints she held out hope too. I couldn’t be convinced a person I fell so deeply in love with could’ve wronged me—that she could be that cold and calculating. How could anyone judge me for feeling the way I did after all we shared? Vicodin was the only thing that could bring me closer to the person I needed to be. The person who needed to believe when the phone was silent that hope still remained. Being two weeks away from our two-year anniversary, she surely planned to come back into my life to remind me of her beauty like she always found a way to.

Compassion for all I put her through found a way to roost inside me. Would I have wanted to deal with so many emotions from someone when I needed to be there for my kids? I could understand how she could be relieved not to be talking to me anymore, but I also never would’ve allowed anyone to develop deep feelings for me, in her situation, if I wasn’t the real decision maker. All we could ever see in the end were the worlds that disconnected us from each other. It could easily be argued that this was for the best, but if that was true, why was my life so off track? If I couldn’t believe in Anya’s love, what could I ever believe in? The only thing I felt certain about was knowing nothing would stand in my way of the unthinkable, the unimaginable and the inevitable in the eyes of those who knew me.

My feelings remained unresolved for her mainly because she held on to my necklace for a reason. She always put it on whenever she came to see me or when I came to see her—her beautiful smile and the happiness in her wide eyes meant the world to me each time she showed it off to me. Most people would get to live the kind of happiness I felt each time she did that without fear of losing it, but not me. I’ve never had love long enough in my life to feel secure in never losing it eventually. I knew nothing lasted forever, but I believed my love for her did. I never expected her love to last longer than mine, but I also never thought I’d ever question it. All I needed was some part of her to hold onto me in some way. This all had to be a production Jackson ran to fill doubts inside of me—hoping I’d fall out of love with Anya so she would fall out of love with me. If I were to lose hope and get upset with her again, he would win her back without even trying. As proof of the contrary stacked up against me with each passing hour, I chose to go to bed at night believing we could find a way back to each other. People believed in God; an entity that never gave them evidence of existence—why couldn’t I believe in Anya’s love? As long as we could see the same moon, we were still close enough for a chance to still exist for us.

Armed with hope in my heart and Vicodin on my mind, when my mother called, it provided an opportunity to show her just like her belief in God, my belief in love would not be shaken.

“I guarantee, on my life, she’s never coming back to you.” she harshly predicted after I told her my hope. “She’s workin’ on her marriage.”

“Ok.” I replied with a defeated tone. “I have to go mom—it’s been a long day. Have a goodnight.”

“Goodnight, honey.”

I would’ve rather absorbed a Mike Tyson jab than my mother’s words—she knew how this usually panned out for me. That’s an easy guarantee for my mother to make because it was that simple. I believed in hope the same way I believed in God—always caving into reality and logic. To imagine her working on her marriage was beyond sickening to me—the last thing I could believe. I knew Anya—she would never post something like that unless she was forced to. She just couldn’t do something that vicious and cold regardless of all that went down over a month earlier. She told me she felt responsible for all of this—why would she take another kill shot? I wanted her to take the kill shot when we reconnected, not two years later.

Unable to sleep, my mother’s words fueled me enough to take the thirty-minute drive to the bridge to examine my destiny. I drove across it three separate times, spotting several areas I could quietly get to the very top of it. There was no settling for anything less than its highest point—there could be zero chance at surviving this. If I were to survive this attempt, I’d only be more depressed. My mom’s assessment provided me a view of the future—the Landyn Lastman who believed in love would never return. My Vicodin usage would only turn me yellow one day if I tried to battle through it. The bridge would bring a swift descent into nothingness—the only darkness I wanted to know. For Anya to take away my belief in love by working on her marriage would be the ultimate insult after walking away from her because she was married when we first met. To be that disregarded as a human being would be something I couldn’t live with and my Vicodin usage would only grow. My suicide note would absolve Anya of any fault—going from the womb straight to the tomb was always my destiny. I just didn’t know it until now. Maybe I was just a bad person in another life and this was my punishment—to be given this great belief in love but be damned from ever obtaining it. If she was working on her marriage, that would be the final nail in my coffin and it was time to expedite the postponement of disappointment.

My letter would only be an act of holding on to a hope that didn’t exist. While I believed she would arrive at my door or reach out to me, her love was only based on hopes, wishes and dreams—never reality. The minute reality became a possibility, her love vanished like a shooting star upon its entry into the atmosphere. When I first met her, I thought her love was the only thing I could trust in this world. The way she looked at me; the things she told me—things that only happened because reality never did. If Anya could go on for a single day without seeing or hearing from me; if she could call a policeman and turn my name over to a police official; if she could tell me I should get a dog or a roommate, she couldn’t have wanted to be with me, or even be in love with me.

That evening, as three Vicodin swirled in my system, I discovered a new profile picture Katie had up—this one of her and Anya. The picture was a beautiful one of her mother along with Katie’s strong resemblance to her. All I could do was get lost in Anya—I hadn’t seen her in over a month and it looked like it was taken during Katie’s Bat Mitzvah. When I recalled Anya telling me she had me on her mind the entire time, then taking it a step further by telling me she wanted to wear my ring, it was hard to believe how far apart we were—I had never been more filled with love and more crushed so instantaneously. I’d never understand how she could make me feel so loved yet never being courageous enough to make a promise to be with the man who’s ring she wanted to wear. If Katie continued to post pics like this one, Jackson didn’t have to force Anya into doing anything else—my life was already over.

I found myself watching “The Notebook”—a movie Anya told me she watched after San Francisco and I hadn’t seen in a long time. When the scene came where she wanted to give up because they were fighting too much, it reminded me of Anya and I. I wish I could’ve had the same confidence Jake Gyllenhaal’s character had. Yes, I fought with Anya because I had to be brave enough to tell her the things she didn’t want to hear but needed to hear—I loved her. Every single thing Anya and I ever disagreed on could be resolved over time. It was something we had to work hard on so we knew where we stood. Everything I ever fought her one was an act of fighting for her because I trusted she wanted to wear my ring. If she was bold enough to ask for a necklace, it was my job to make her courageous enough to have the ring she wanted too. I didn’t need to ask Anya to forget about what everybody else wanted because I knew she wanted us. I threw things back at her not to hurt her, but to make her see past today but ten or twenty or thirty years from now. That her kids would leave her one day, and it would just be her and Jackson. The longer she stayed in her marriage, pushing her kids to be too busy to hide behind how bad it was, the more she set them up to drive themselves away from her and Jackson—as far away as possible. I argued with Anya for the same reasons Jake Gyllenhaal did in “The Notebook”—I wanted Anya to see to a time when her children were no longer a daily part of her life. I didn’t have to ask her what she wanted over everyone else—she showed me everyday and it drove me mad she refused to listen to herself. That’s all I ever tried to do. What she felt were jabs, accusations and twenty questions was me fighting with her to see she mattered as much as anyone did, if not more.

While awaiting news about another job offer, I skipped my job search for the day and visited my mother.

“Your hair is coming back in.” I told her.

“It’s gray, but I never thought my hair would ever grow back.” She remarked, while rubbing her hands through the stray strands. “They put me on a lighter chemo treatment.”

“What do the doctors think?”

“Well, the cancer is still on my liver and lung—on my skull as well.” she stated. “Although it’s not spreading, it’s still there—they say I have stage four cancer.”

“The higher the number, the more serious the cancer?”

“Yes.” she confirmed, looking away from me.

“How many levels are there? Ten?” I wondered; it was hard to believe she even had cancer.

“No. Four.” she replied while her eyes peered straight into her television screen and away from mine.

She was doing so well, I found it hard to believe she had the worst possible stage of Cancer. How could she be at the most serious stage when her hair was growing back and they shifted to a lighter chemo treatment?

“Do you trust the doctors? Do you think they’re being honest with you?”

“I do. I’ve had my oncologist, Dr. Delmann, for twenty years now—he’s always been so supportive. But one of the nurses snapped at me the other day while I was getting my chemo treatment.”

“She snapped at you?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Was she unable to find a vein again?”

“Each time I go in for treatment, there have cancer patients of all ages there—even kids. I try to say something positive to everyone I see there, especially the kids.”

“What kind of things do you tell them?”

“I’ll say things like” you’re gonna beat this!” and “don’t give up hope!” she explained. “I guess I gave words of encouragement to a terminal patient without knowing and the nurse scolded me for it.”

I understood the nurses who worked at the chemo treatment center saw what my mom didn’t every single day—that hope was the postponement of disappointment. They probably knew, or were often shocked to learn, a patient having a scheduled chemo treatment missed their appointment because they lost their battle. These nurses watched many times how people with hope and all the good chances in the world would be gone before they finished the end of their treatments. What they neglected though was the personal cancer experience and how easy it was for fear to overcome hope. My mother had the same disease, now a stage four cancer patient, and had as much of a chance at dying as a terminal patient did. My mom could have easily given up years ago—I know I would’ve. Every doctor appointment she had would bring bad news followed by more bad news and she still never gave up on hope. Not one time did she ever say she was beaten and tired—she just kept fighting and kept believing. For a nurse to reprimand a stage four cancer patient who didn’t have the same time sensitive prognosis just didn’t sit well with me. They had no right to deride my mother for the only thing she had beaten this disease with for the last twenty years; hope. Then again, maybe this nurse, like many of them, had become close to the terminal patient.

“I think that nurse is probably as angry and frustrated at this disease as much as anyone receiving treatment is—it probably just got the best of her. She might’ve gotten close to the terminal patient.”

“I guess I’ve never looked at it like I was too special to get Cancer.” She said with a sullen tone. “I didn’t always believe there was a reason, but getting Cancer was God’s way of giving me an opportunity to touch others. That He chose me because he knew I was strong enough to give strength to others. I’d like to think that anyway.”

“You shouldn’t let a nurse having a bad day take that gift away from you.”

“You’re probably right.” she replied, unmoved while pointing the remote at the television to change the channel.

“I have a question to ask.” I blurted, changing the subject. “Do you think anyone would ever let go of someone they were truly in love with? For any reason at all?”

“No.” she responded; her eyes now focused on me. “That’s how I know she’s not in love with you, Landyn.”

“Okay.”

“She doesn’t even know what love is.” She continued. “When you told me she still slept in the same bed as her husband even after all his cheating, I knew she’d never leave him.”

As my mother played the same role the nurse who reprimanded her did, she was surely sick and tired of hearing about my broken heart. Every waking hour she struggled with having stage four cancer on her mind and would happily switch places with me. That fact alone made it perfectly clear—my heart break couldn’t be taken seriously. There would be no understanding of what I was going through from her even while feeling like a cancer patient with a terminal prognosis.

After leaving my mother’s house that day more depressed than before my arrival, I couldn’t believe how much of a fool for love I was—hoping beyond hope for twenty-two months she would find a way to be with me. It was like being told I had two days to live but deciding to finish the work week. Even when Anya told me every day was a reminder of her sadness and how much her kids needed her—I still clung to hope. When she explained she would only be with me if it was certain their futures would not be affected by her decision to leave—I still clung to hope. How could their futures also not be affected by Jackson’s own actions that led her to do something she couldn’t help? That’s what didn’t make any sense to me. It made sense before she met me, but how could she share so much with me after things remained unchanged for years between her and Jackson? How could she work on things now knowing all we’ve shared for nearly two years? If he wins a seat on the house of representatives, what happens then? Wouldn’t he have to fly to Washington D.C. for work each week? Unless she went with him, wouldn’t they eventually be back to square one? It drove me ever crazier to think how she was unable to see herself in the mirror. She told me one time I exhibited behaviors she couldn’t trust, yet she chose to stay, and sharing the same bed, with a man she knew without a doubt she could never trust? How did her decision to work on her marriage make an ounce of sense? Did she ignore every single thing she ever felt? And what did her kids stand to learn from working on things after intentionally trying to destroy it? In fact, not being able to help, suggesting a natural response, herself from intentionally trying to destroy her marriage? Anya never held back; I was the one who did—I could’ve easily have gotten her pregnant.

Making the mistake of going online before going to bed that evening, left me tortured to the point, I needed three Vicodin to deal with the negative emotions—and the fear of seeing another picture that would stir me into madness. I found more articles about staying for the sake of the kids, and each one I read stated it was never a good idea to stay for the sake of the kids in a marriage like Anya’s. One article also suggested that spouses mainly stayed in bad marriages because they didn’t want to be separated from their kids. Experiencing that first hand, it added credence to the argument, but it didn’t mean it was right—especially when you throw in a twenty-two-month relationship with one partner and another brief two-month affair with another before that. After adding that into the mix, it made zero sense to me. If Anya had told me she didn’t want to be separated from the kids before I fell and I gave her grief over this, I could understand her being very upset with me. I’d easily understand how she could let me go. To allow me to fall deeply in love with her though, based on the premise that the only reason she was there was because she didn’t believe anyone would want to be with her due to having two kids, or “baggage”, just murdered me from the inside out. If there was anyone who exhibited behaviors she couldn’t trust, it was Anya. Two happily separated parents were better than two parents living together in misery. Her kids knew more than she gave them credit for and Katie’s Facebook profile pictures proved that she was no dummy. The worst things Anya and Jackson could do was pretend she was blind and dumb to everything she felt around her. Katie was extremely perceptive and the monster they tried to create in her eyes wasn’t me at all, but the ones who denied her peace of mind.

The next day brought news that the Company who showed an interest in hiring me decided to pass. Washing away my disappointment with water and more Vicodin, I watched my savings dwindle from thirty to fifteen thousand dollars in just four months. My addiction to opiates brought an attitude of carelessness that led to indifference—something would show up sooner or later. In all honesty, I hadn’t given my next career move any real serious consideration and the only reason I applied for the job was due to its proximity to my apartment. With a crippled mind at the helm, tackling the corporate world again gave me an anxiety I had never felt before and the drive to be successful in life was no longer there anymore. The drive to even get out of bed was basically non-existent. I had always had the ability to bounce back from any setbacks I’ve had, but there was a finality with this one—it was so damn dark I couldn’t see tomorrow without the help of a pill intervening. My sense of self-worth was at an all-time low—a feeling I left in the rearview ten years ago. There were no silver linings and the light at the end of the grieving tunnel couldn’t escape from the black hole of my mind. After deciding to get out of bed at one that afternoon, and skipping another lunch, I jumped on my computer, unleashing my flash drive mind onto it.

I was thinking of when you told me “I don’t think I know you”. Well, maybe you didn’t? One thing you did know about me though is that I was deeply in love with you, and what came with that was me caring about your happiness—your true happiness; the one you showed me when we were together. I also remembered when you texted me “I had so much to say to you, but it doesn’t matter anymore” and also when you texted me “you’ve said enough. You’ve done enough”. You told me you were in love with me then you did something people in love with someone don’t ever do. When I first met you, I thought you knew what love was and meant. We never had sex in parking lots or cheap hotels. I never asked you to leave your kids or to choose me over them—it was always them and me. I never knowingly got in the way of you being a mother to them and I never would. In fact, I believed you being with me, therefore being genuinely happy, would only benefit them. You may have thought you felt love for me but somewhere along the line you fell out of love. When you’re in love with someone Anya, the very thought of what you ended up doing would’ve never crossed your mind. You don’t tell people “I love you forever” then call the police on them. You knew all I wanted you to do was to tell someone you told me you no longer loved and no longer trusted, who betrayed you countless times, that you were in love with me. To protect, defend and vouch for me after he got overzealous. After he stalked me on Facebook, the time to be honest had arrived—he knew we were together. If you were truly in love with me, like you claimed you were, I wouldn’t have had to feel like I needed to push you to be honest or for a promise. All you had to do was be honest with me—to tell me “Look Landyn, I want my kids to have the best things in life and I feel staying in my marriage gives them that”. Let’s be honest, that’s the reason why you stay with a philanderer, Anya. I may have not liked what I heard—but I needed that from you. I may have told you to think about what you told me about money and happiness, but I would’ve respected you for your honesty. I would’ve just left your life months ago because that’s not the kind of person I could ever see myself with. The thing that bothered me the most about all I learned the last day we spoke, was that it seemed from day one you always felt that way. And if you did, how could you ever call your “love” a unique gift? How could you have asked me to fight for you and then after I did, turn around and say to me “I’m married!”? After you told me there was no marriage? After you told me you wanted to wear my ring? I’ll never understand how you fail to see the malice in that.

Even after being betrayed, a look at her side of things marched on—wanting to face the truth but unwilling to accept it at the same time. How could she have faked all those tears? Or were those tears never meant for us, but for her kids? Getting lost in her picture with Katie, she couldn’t be the deceptive cruel woman that used me. Although I harbored anger for her, I couldn’t completely house it yet, holding out hope she’d do something to show me that I was in the wrong for feeling the way I did. I wanted my therapist to be wrong. I wanted to guarantee my mother was wrong about working on her dishonorable marriage. More than anything, I wanted to be wrong about everything—I could never hate her enough to get over her. She was in every song that found its way to my ears. She was in the truffle rice I made for dinner most nights—I even used the Tupperware she gave me the food in. Pieces of her surrounded me in my room, and even traces of her silky dark hair were likely still on my pillow. How could I ever hate her when so much of her still remained? She gave me the best holiday seasons I ever had by simply being in my life and the fall would never feel the same way again. How could I ever give up on all the great feelings she gave me? I could only mimic them with Vicodin if I didn’t need her, but I still did. The good feelings and times we shared were so great, it trumped all the bad times we ever had. She still meant the world to me after disappearing from mine. Maybe she needed some time to realize how much I meant to her? She admitted she didn’t know what she was doing on our last day before giving my personal information to Jackson, and to the people who would harm me. And of course, if she didn’t know what she was doing, then how did she ever know what she felt for me was love? My heart wasn’t willing to accept what my mind already knew.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Believing I knew the real Anya—the one without Jackson’s influence gave me hope she would reemerge from his shadow. When she said her anger would never be resolved, it gave me hope—she held onto my necklace for a reason. I didn’t care what my therapist thought or my mother guaranteed—this couldn’t be over. Anya would reach out then prove me wrong—I just didn’t know when. The love in my heart for her could not be changed even as my mind had evidence against it. It was the kind of love that made summer people fall in love with the rain. The kind of love that made one remember insignificant days of the year, like June second and November thirtieth. The kind of love that makes you feel euphoric without a pill for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Although it’s also the kind of love that rips your heart into a million pieces making you wish you had only been hit by a bullet instead, you still fight for it when you’re in danger of losing it. If I couldn’t fight for a love like that, what else could I fight for on this earth?

No doubt Thanksgiving and the thirtieth will allow me into her mind. Jackson may not allow her to choose love but he could never disallow her mind the freedom to romp. If Anya truly cared about the well-being of her children, she had to also consider her own too because they were likely affected by it. Her unhappiness had to cause discord in the home and if anything, my presence in her life brought her the peace and happiness she sought. If Anya’s well-being wasn’t in place, how could the well-being of her kids be? If they already believed their mother was unloving, what did she plan to teach them by staying in her marriage? By staying for the sake of the kids, she stole the most beautiful things about her from them. Did she really want her kids to believe marriages were unrealistic and a source of unhappiness in life? This is why I gave Anya such a hard time—I saw the things she was either unable to or refused to see. If this relationship was all about me, I would’ve loved her freely and gotten her pregnant. As much as I wanted to be with her, all I did was communicate the things she showed me every single day of our relationship. I held back because I loved her, not because I didn’t. It’s one thing for a parent to divorce but what would her kids think if she was divorcing because she was pregnant? The kids would’ve never recovered from that. I put myself on the back burner for nearly two whole years, even seeking therapy to make things work and it all backfired in the end—making it impossible to let go or to accept my mother’s guarantee. Leaving Jackson and allowing all that made her beautiful to come to life was a great opportunity to show her kids why happiness matters. Anya wasn’t giving up on her family or her marriage—Jackson did that the days he chose to chip her away. It shouldn’t have taken Landyn Lastman in his life to change his ways. Even Jackson’s friend, the doctor, who told Anya to take a chance with him, knew this has been going on far too long to stay for anyone’s sake. Yet, she refused to listen to herself. I don’t care who the person is, if someone fought for her the way I did, they’d never quit fighting. Anya had the chance of a lifetime—to have love and to show her kids what was acceptable and unacceptable in life. That if you ever made a mistake, you can correct it. That being respected and loved is more important than money. That fear and worry will keep you from the life you deserve to have. Now if Anya had cheated on Jackson if he was faithful, then there was no question she betrayed her kids by loving me. But for her to feel she betrayed her kids felt like a personal attack on me, and after all we shared and I sacrificed for her, it was something I’d never understand. I thought Anya did great things for both Katie and Andrew, but I just wanted her to know she didn’t need Jackson’s money to get her kids to excel in life. That money wasn’t the great motivator—love was. That with love in your heart, anything and everything was possible. And our love especially, was too good to be kept a secret.

If you care about the well-being of your kids so much, I think you would’ve never pursued our love, but I don’t know how their well-being won’t be affected if your well-being is not intact. Your well-being is more important than theirs only because it affects them as much as it affects you. Don’t you see that, Anya? Don’t you see why I was so hard on you? Our love was special. It wasn’t a parking lot, bathroom stall or cheap hotel love. It was not something you should feel like you betrayed your kids to have. That’s why I was so upset with you when you told me that. It was like you were telling me our love wasn’t a good thing and how could that ever be true? You once told me every girl should experience this kind of love at least once in their lifetime. I think our love is the only kind of love every girl should experience. I don’t want to be mad at you. I want to be your Landyn. Fun Landyn. Good times, Landyn. Easy going Landyn. Life is good Landyn, again. I don’t want to hate you. I love you. I always will. I miss you. That’s the truth.

Vicodin kept my love for Anya alive. Whenever I felt defeated—I’d just reach for more. When Denise left me, the guitar turned into my best friend, now a white ten milligram capsule became oxygen to me. It also gave me the temerity to withstand checking in on Anya’s Facebook account—to see if she had befriended her own husband yet. After learning they still remained strangers in the Facebook world, I felt relieved. That peace would be short lived when a negative thought, or reality occurred to me—it was a trap to see if I would contact her. For all I knew, the pics Katie posted on Facebook may have been pleas for her dad to come back home. The most heartbreaking scenario I envisioned was one of Katie blaming herself. That she put the pictures of her father proposing to her mother and of her and Anya together because she blamed herself for their separation. I could only hope from afar that both Katie and Andrew didn’t blame themselves for a separation, if it happened at all. No doubt I had my issues with their parenting at times, but they both loved their kids to death. Anya could’ve chosen a way to not expose his cheating, but he had to come clean in some way—he couldn’t dance around the fact he hurt his wife for years with the choices he made. Anya also needed to come clean—we were not a roll in the hay or a one-night stand. How could she love someone the way she loved me and choose to be dishonest about it if it was love in her eyes? I guess my heart was in the way of what was truly happening over there.

How could Anya choose to work on a marriage with a man who innately led her to two other men over the last two years? Was she, at the very least subconsciously, out to wreck other men instead of the one who intentionally abused her? Even her husband’s best friend thought Jackson was a douchebag. How many lives did she plan to wreck in the name of staying for the sake of the kids? How could she allow him to do anything with or for her at this point? Whether we were together or not, Anya was better off being separated from Jackson. As long as she remained with Jackson, she was a terrible person—he brought out the absolute worst in her. If you didn’t have honesty and trust in a marriage, you didn’t have a marriage—she even admitted so. Jackson didn’t bring out the best in her—I did that. How could the man who inspired her to fall in love with other men ever bring out the best in her?

Anya must have warned Jackson she’d never pursue harassment and stalking charges against me. That this “case building” brought on by falsehoods caused enough tension between them to start the divorce process. If she did ask him to leave, she finally did the right thing for the first time in her marriage. Telling Jackson to exit stage left would prove Anya was better than Jackson all along, and more importantly that I was wrong—the only thing I ever wanted to be about all of this. This would explain why she never returned the necklace, and if she did choose to come to me, I’d be there to catch her and hold her forever. Even if she told him to leave, and she chose someone else over me, I’d be proud of her for doing the right thing. If letting me go was loving me then wanting her to be with another man instead of Jackson was me loving her in the same regard. Her well-being staying intact for her kids trumped my ruined life.

All I ever wanted Jackson to know was that there was no turning back for Anya now because she loved me forever. It wasn’t right for anyone to stay in a marriage with deep feelings for someone else. It wasn’t about him knowing the details of our relationship—it’s only about the love she had for me. Just him knowing she was in love with me was spilling the beans about the details without them being known. As much as I disliked Jackson, that’s not what I wanted him to know. Our love wasn’t based on sex, like his marriage was, but a mutual respect for each other. There was no need to rub his face in our love, but he needed to know the truth if he went out seeking it. This wasn’t about driving him to do something he’d regret—he was a father and had a lot to lose. In fact, I hoped we could get along for the sake of his children, but that was likely far more impossible than improbable. Jackson went looking for the truth because Anya refused to be honest with him. He clearly wanted to know the truth, and he deserved that much. Anya didn’t deserve to feel a morsel of guilt about loving someone who honored and respected her. We still had a chance to turn this into something beautiful, and if she left Jackson the right way, I’d easily forgive and forget—chalking it all up to the fear of hurting her kids. I strongly believed she held on to the necklace because she held on to us still. Why would she hold onto something that reminded her that she betrayed her kids?

The movie “New Moon”, the second book in the “Twilight” series we read together, opened up in theaters on November thirtieth—the same day we met two years ago. Hoping she had this information as well, I made plans to go see the movie at the theater near her home—on the thirtieth day of November. If there was a chance to patch things up, especially if she did separate from Jackson, she might be compelled to see the movie hoping I might be there. She had to be holding onto my necklace because she wanted us to reconnect. When I told my mother about the coincidence of the movie “New Moon” over the phone that evening, she convinced me that I was verifiably insane. Although I disagreed with her psychiatric assessment, it was impossible to fully discount her analysis. My mother’s buzz kills came with good intentions, but I loved Anya anyway, so it didn’t matter. I just hoped she was wrong as I held on to this new found hope in my heart instead of reaching for a Vicodin. With this newfound hope in my heart, the chance at a reconciliation of some kind, I reached for popcorn instead of a Vicodin.

While reviewing one of the texts she sent me over a month ago that read “Goodbye, my Landyn. I’m not a bad person” a deep sadness swelled inside of me knowing the man she married brought out the worst in her. It made me sad to know she felt the need to tell me that. Anya wasn’t a bad person, I would’ve never fell in love with a bad person, but her marriage led her to do bad things—and I knew she was better than that. She even told me she would never love again or be happy again. How could she expect me to think staying for the kids was the best thing to do knowing that? If she ever did the right the thing and left him to be with me—her happiness was my top priority for the rest of her life. I could never deny her my arms. If she truly believed I ruined her life, I’d do everything in my power to fix it for her if she left Jackson. She accused me one time of ruining her life. If she were to leave, I’d make sure to repair any damage I’ve done.

As the holiday season rolled around, it brought back memories of how much fun the days up to Thanksgiving were last year. We had started reading the “Twilight” series together and good feelings about the future surrounded us. Especially after the pregnancy scare, we became closer than ever before. Last Thanksgiving Day, with Anya’s love, I felt blessed and thankful for the first time in decades. This Thanksgiving Day however, the day started off with me rolling out of bed at around two in the afternoon—the latest I had ever slept in on a holiday. Even having the gift of life, a wonderful blessing taken away from billions, I was unable to find anything to be thankful for—the greatest of tragedies. I had things people would die to have but the darkness of my depression blinded me to all the beauty around me. And whenever I sought a ray of sunshine through the darkest of tunnels, it disgusted my mother.

“Well, I’m really hopin’ I’ll hear from her today.” I told her. “Afterall, it is Thanksgiving.”

“Give it up, will you?” She scolded, shaking her head. “She doesn’t wanna be with you.”

“After all we shared? That doesn’t make sense to me.” I countered.

“Nothin’ will ever make sense to you until you let her go.” My mother stated, slapping me on the thigh with her wooden back scratching tool. “No matter what you’ve shared together, she’s never comin’ back to you. Her mind is made up and once a woman’s mind is made up, it’s over for them. You need to accept that and move on.”

Armed with three Vicodin already in my bloodstream, there was nothing my mother could say that would shake me—at least for another hour or so.

“What time is dinner?” I asked, deftly changing the subject.

“I’m having it at four.” She answered, with a sigh. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“Do what anymore?”

“All this cooking—it’s a lot of work. It wears me out now.”

“What do you need help with?”

“One thing I don’t need is my kitchen lookin’ like Yucca Flats after the blast.”

“Yucca Flats? What does that mean?”

“I don’t want a disaster happenin’ in my kitchen.”

“Alrighty then.” I caved. “I’m gonna step out for a bit and do some of my CPE hours.”

“Don’t you want to use the den, Honey? Your father started a fire downstairs—it’s relaxing.”

“Thanks, but I think I need to get out of the house for a little bit.”

“Okay, just be back by four.”

“Back by four—got it.” I said, throwing my laptop bag across my shoulder then kissing my mother’s mostly bald head before heading out to the local café.

When I arrived, I couldn’t leave my car—my depression kicking into overdrive. Twenty minutes later and after the redness disappeared from my eyes, I grabbed the big black binder from my backseat and headed inside the café. After seeing my familiar black leather chair was available, I fell into it and pored over the pages, trying capture some kind of happiness. Like Linus’s blanket, the monstrosity of a binder that carried my entire soul within it gave me some security. Within its pages carried the magic to transport me back to the best times of my life—a life that felt decades away now. I thought Thanksgiving would’ve given her an emotional excuse to reach out to me, but my phone remained as silent and still as the dead. Since it appeared she had no plans of reaching out to me, at least the text exchanges memorialized in my binder could make it feel like she did. After adding two Vicodin to the equation, I fell whole heartedly into the past without a care of the future, or the present. Seeing my mom’s usual jovial holiday spirit tempered by my sadness and her own also compounded my mental anguish, but the Vicodin helped temporarily ease my disposition. With the opening of “New Moon” on the thirtieth of November on my mind, it restored hope that Thanksgiving had taken away. Albeit small, there existed a chance to believe she still carried the same feelings I did.

My mother and therapist couldn’t be right about Anya—they were lying to get me to move on. After convincing myself Anya still loved me, and everyone else was wrong, I threw the black binder in the back seat and headed back to my parent’s home to enjoy a great Thanksgiving dinner. While my mother led us in prayer, I went through the motions to make her happy but refusing to thank a false entity who gave me nothing but pain and sorrow. The only gratefulness I could muster was to thank Him for allowing me to feel love for nothing. Watching my mother struggle to eat the meal she made because of all the sores in her mouth, made me as angry at God as I’ve ever been. Before leaving my mother’s house, I tried to load up on more Vicodin to get me through the week. While my parents cleaned the dishes, I went in her room to look for her pill bottle, but it was nowhere to be found. When I reasoned she hid it from me like I was a junkie, it angered me. Did she not understand all what I was going through? Did she think the pain was nothing and just something that should be easily gotten over? Could she possibly understand how much effort I put into loving Anya? That I lost my career fighting for her? Didn’t she know by now how much this love meant to me after holding out for nothing less? She had to know that hiding her Vicodin from me was akin to killing me. This truly became a matter of life and death. Vicodin was my only life source now—Anya was not there. As these emotions drove my brain it all became clear—I now thought and behaved like an addict.

When my mother returned to her room, I made my case known.

“Hey mom, can I get some Vicodin for the road?” I asked.

“No.” she swiftly replied. “You’re takin’ too much of it. I had a hundred pills and now I’m down to twenty. Now I have to wait another week before I can get my prescription filled.”

In her defense I took eighty pills from her the last time I visited. With no leg to stand, it looked like I’d have no choice but to cut down so the fifteen pills I had left would last until she had her next presecription filled.

“Would you be able to spare five? I won’t be able to see you for a week.” I negotiated. “Why are you hidin’ them from me anyway? I’m not addicted.”

“Right. If you’re not addicted, you’re abusing them—that’s why you need five for the week.” she said, trying to keep her voice low so my father wouldn’t hear. “I’m hiding them because you’re stealing em’—a lot of em’!”

“I can get off of them, mom. I need them for my back pain.” I lied. “It’s the time of year.”

“Why don’t you see a doctor about your back?” She shot. “They’ll prescribe them to you.”

“Ok, I’ll do that but can you give me five for now? Just to help get me through before the next refill?”

My mother looked into my eyes then sighed.

“Alright, leave the room and I’ll get you five.” she caved. “Even though your back looks fine to me.”

After nodding then exiting her room, she shut the door behind me. Disappointment grew inside me after dreaming of leaving with at least fifty pills and the ability to have a decent week emotionally ended quickly. Instead, I’d be getting only five pills that would likely be gone in one day with six days to go. If my life couldn’t get any worse after losing my job and Anya leaving me, I now needed a pill to get through the day. I’ve never needed anything but the sun in the sky to face even hardest of days, but now it was either Vicodin or the bridge. The last thing I’d survive is a return to the same dark place Denise left me. Even more daunting would be going to an even darker place after losing Anya. There would be no surviving this heartbreak without hope or Vicodin—and the complete denial of the most painful of truths in the eyes of my mother and my therapist. Anya holding onto the necklace, my black binder and using Vicodin to mimic the love I felt with her was all I had left in this world.

Upon reentering the room, my mother handed me the five Vicodin as she promised. After telling her not to worry about me, I gave her a hug and thanked her for dinner. Seeing my father on the way out, I thanked him for dinner and exited the house into a crisp and cool November evening. Before getting inside my car, I walked into the backyard to stare up at the moon. I began reminiscing to happier days as a carefree child, my mother making a tent for me by hanging long white sheets from the clotheslines. Looking out at the diamond shaped grass area, I saw myself at the plate with my mother pitching to me on our makeshift baseball field. I could never hit a real baseball in the backyard—even a tennis ball would easily break a neighbor’s window. My mother then came up with her most brilliant idea—a sheet of tin foil she crunched up into a ball that I could hit a mile that would never break anything. She must’ve spent half her earnings on aluminum foil just to keep me happy. My backyard carried a ton of fond memories, but it didn’t provide a safe place anymore. Everything in life seemed mundane and dull now—nothing felt the same. Even the moon didn’t have the same beauty—now, just a floating rock in the sky. Before leaving the driveway on my way home, I quickly threw down a Vicodin to ease the anxiety I felt whenever I drove over the bridge now. When I needed a pill to stop myself from ending the torment, that’s when I knew life would never be the same again.

Hydrocodone became the ingredient to cope with great mental anguish my life’s failures brought upon me. While people demanded me to “get over it”, it was impossible to do with a crippled mind. It was beyond such comprehension that I couldn’t even begin to describe how I felt to people. Men weren’t supposed to hold onto pain, but to let it go, but I lost all the things that made me a man. Taking a Vicodin helped me to temporarily forget the things I lost so I could function, but at the end of the day, my manhood was non-existent. Worse yet, I wasn’t ready to accept she was gone--that our love could come to such a horrific, beyond tragic, ending. As long as she held onto my necklace, I held strong that Jackson made her do this to us—this could never be what she wanted.

When black Friday arrived, melancholy diffracted hope nailing me to my bed throughout the day. Staying under the sheet hoping to wake into darkness became a common theme for me over the last two months. In comparison to the year before, I would’ve never believed this was ever possible. The Vicodin mixing in the blood through my veins was the only life I had left. Lying in bed wondering what it feels like to love someone so much who you’re able to love freely was sheer madness. Why was it impossible for me but possible for others? It all didn’t make sense. All my life, it’s been either they’re into me and I’m not into them, or I’m into them and they’re not into me. Then, when I finally meet someone with the same zest for me as I do for them, it’s an illusion? It seemed the only reason why she felt the same way was because she had an out. She never had to be real—she could just continue to pretend if she had to. This huge heart was now forever worthless—I had nothing to offer anyone anymore. Loving Anya sapped all the hope and energy that my belief in love gave me. Like the Giving Tree, the book my mother used to read to me, I was just stump to be sat on. I gave my all to Anya and she never allowed me to love her like any lover would be able to. I was never rich or tall enough to be proud of in her eyes—even as she literally dreamt about our wedding day and wanted to wear my ring. I thought all I had to do was give her the love she always deserved, and she’d find a way to leave her marriage—I couldn’t have been more wrong about anything. My greatest miscalculation, in a life full of them, was believing in the love she had for me.

The following day, I escaped the dreariness of my apartment to walk around the mall as holiday shopping season began. Before I met Anya, I’d go just to check out all the women, but I couldn’t have been more disinterested, walking the mall like a zombie. As women passed me by, mostly affluent, I wondered how many of them lived secret lives. How many of them went out shopping on their husband’s dime without any love for them in their hearts. How many of them were living a lie but hanging on because their husband wouldn’t allow them to leave. When I was younger, the world seemed fair but now, why would I want any part of this? Why would I want to be with a woman who was only out to take and not to give? I refused to be one of those husbands holding on to nothing—being merely an ATM machine for their retail therapy needs. It seemed as long as I provided financial security, I was worthy of being loved—no thank you. I’d rather leave this loveless world now than stay here making myself and others miserable.

The thing that upset me about Anya is she knew my fears and went out to harm me anyway with her version of love. I never meant to break her heart—I was only trying to protect mine. I should’ve known better though—that her love was nothing more than a mirage. That she would use me to fill a void in her marriage. I just didn’t think she had the audacity to do that knowing my fears upfront. It’s like—it’s my world and fuck you, Landyn—I’ll do what I want to do. Like an entitled child, she stepped on the gas and drove right over me no matter I did to stop her. Every single day for twenty-two months I proved to her my love, while she proved she never had plans to leave her husband. She couldn’t have broken my heart more than when she told me she felt she betrayed her kids. I had to be honest with myself—that didn’t feel like love at all to me. She looked at our relationship like the one in the “Bridges of Madison County”—just a four-day fling. Our relationship was two years—there was nothing brief about it. And definitely nothing deserving of its ending. She betrayed her kids? How so? By loving someone who honored, respected and didn’t use her for anything? Can someone explain that to me? She betrayed her kids by staying with Jackson, not me! No wonder why Anya told me no matter what happens she had no regrets—she didn’t lose anything she didn’t already have. She just lost the vacation from her stressful life she found in me, but there was another dope just right around the corner, I’m sure. And her kids were the perfect out—one she planned to use all along. If I died tomorrow, the woman who loved me more than air, would never be there. Knowing that was the killer of my soul.

The day before November thirtieth, my mind was all over the place. This day I focused on Jackson setting me up and how he forced Anya to hurt me. His dominion over her gave me the craziest thoughts I ever had. A part of me wanted a fight to the death because his marriage was a hotbed for bringing pain to good people. I wanted to wipe his arrogance off the face of the earth—I wanted to end him then take my life. I had never considered killing another person but the thought entered my mind on this day. I didn’t have firearms, or any means to kill or even harm someone else other than my fists, but I just couldn’t get the satisfaction out of my head. I just wanted a one on one even if it meant my own demise. The disrespect shown to me was on a level that I didn’t see could be overcome any other way. Anya’s “he will come after you” statement added fuel to my rage. What I didn’t realize at the time is that he would come after me legally and not physically—I wasn’t prepared for that. If that’s the way he dealt with conflict, then it was likely worth getting my money’s worth.

After taking a couple of Vicodin, the rage inside began to die. Killing Jackson would also be killing two innocent people who needed him and loved him. If I were to ever kill or hurt Jackson physically, I’d be no better than he was. It made me mad just to know it even became a thought. My parents didn’t raise a murderer and then I would be the real monster in all of this. This entire experience drove me off the edge of sanity—I didn’t know who I was anymore. How could Jackson believe he won anything by forcing Anya to hurt me? I was at the very least in her heart—he could never control her thoughts. The only reason she was even still there was because I forced her to be honest with him. He didn’t truly love Anya—he loved himself, and it was cheaper to keep her.

When the thirtieth arrived, I had a therapy appointment at ten that morning. The morning appointment provided me with a chance to be out of bed before the sun reached its highest point in the daily sky. After lying to Tobey about my anger lessening, she told me it appeared I was entering the acceptance stage of the grieving process. When I told her about the letter I wanted to send to Anya, she advised me not to do so. Even though I didn’t think she would be supportive, it bummed me out to hear that from her.

“You were the nurturer in the relationship.” She told me.

“What makes you think that?”

“You were always more concerned with giving than receiving back.” She explained.

“The last day I spoke to her, I demanded something in return from her.” I quipped. “How does that make me the nurturer in the relationship?”

“You did it for almost two years.” She countered. “That’s why you’re the nurturer in the relationship.”

“In all fairness to her, I did give her a lot of grief.” I revealed. “but, I’d usually end up apologizing for it to get us back on track.”

“To get angry and then apologize to keep up the nurturing.” She said, “That just so happens to be the number one trait of a nurturer.”

After my therapy session ended, I walked out feeling better than when I came in then drove to the movie theater near Anya’s house to see “New Moon”. It was the same theater we saw “Twilight” and adjacent to the bookstore we ran into each other in. As I searched for my seat in the theater, I scanned for any trace of Anya. Upon realizing I had the theater to myself I was thankful for its emptiness—I had to be the only straight man in his late thirties worldwide who planned to see the movie on its opening day. Although I hoped to see Anya walking in, or already sitting there with her popcorn and diet coke when I arrived, the emptiness of the theater fit the way I felt perfectly. To watch Bella grieve after losing Edward, never left me feeling more in tune with a female character. When she gazed outside her window watching the months and seasons pass by without him in her life haunted me—was this all that remains from here on out? . After reconnecting and Edward found Bella in his eyes once again, it made me scan the theater hoping she was there with me, but life wasn’t a movie.

After the movie ended without an Anya sighting, I went inside the book store to the exact same spot where I spotted her reading a book two months ago. Unless she was wearing a cloak of invisibility, she was nowhere to be seen. Believing she would likely catch a later viewing, I got a hot green tea and pretended to look at books for another four hours before accepting the reality I wouldn’t see her on the day we reconnected two years ago. As downing a Vicodin to help me cope with another day that didn’t pan out the way I hoped, leaving me to wonder if this day ever crossed her mind. On my drive home, for some reason I still held out hope, believing she likely wrote me a letter to let me know she didn’t forget this was an important day in her life too. Upon learning the mailbox was as empty as the theater was, an eerie sense of hopelessness consumed me like beyond anything I ever felt before. Even in my severely depressed state, I hadn’t reached out to her once to try to sort out the mess I felt inside, leaving me to wonder how such emptiness could take residence inside a full heart still. While Bella, distraught by the breakup, screamed in her sleep, I did the same internally every night and every day. The only difference she didn’t resort to pills the way I did, but that same black hole pulled my zest for life within it—never to be released again. My sorrow was so acute, not even several Vicodin could calm my negative emotions.

I felt the same vulnerability for Anya as Bella felt for Edward. As a man, how could this be? While it left me to question Anya’s love, it also led me to believe in it—I just wasn’t ready to give up on her. When things were good, and they were good more than they were bad, our love was that perfect best friend love. A once in a lifetime love—a love so special it’s ending wouldn’t simply break a heart, but also a soul. Recalling the time Amya told me “If you don’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do about it.”, even saying “it doesn’t matter anymore.” left me pleading for her to prove me wrong. I still loved her and she could convince me easily if she only tried. The fact there was no effort to even try, left me traumatized. All she had to do was nullify my mother’s guarantee that she would never come back to me. Even Bella’s father told her the same thing—Edward wasn’t coming back. When Edward did, it gave me hope that maybe my life was a movie too. That part of the story proved that parents didn’t want to see their kids in pain after losing someone they loved. They only said those things to help us move on more than they believed they were true. Bella went back for Edward though, and that’s what I had to do here. I had to be the one to extend the olive branch otherwise she would never appear in my eyes again. If Anya went through anything Bella did, I’d rush back to take care of her no matter what the consequences were.

That night I finished the letter, but before deciding to mail it, I reflected upon Tobey’s advice not to. If the letter was purely an attempt to explain myself to her, even apologizing for my actions, then I didn’t see the harm in it. If the letter was a personal attack filled with threats, then I could see her advising against it, but I still loved her. In the end, Anya couldn’t trust me with her pain as much as I couldn’t trust her with mine. My actions may have been reckless but were not intended to be malicious. In all fairness to Anya, she only viewed my actions as malicious because it threatened to end our relationship. If she truly loved me though, that just could never happen. I didn’t want her marriage to exist or to work after a nearly two-year relationship—not after being in her life the way I was. The man that loved her saw how the marriage mostly hurt her more than anyone. She gave me all the evidence in the world to know without uncertainty that her marriage made her unwell. If her marriage was solid in anyway, knowing how much she loved her kids, would she have ever felt compelled to approach me? To call me up and set up a date to tell me about her husband’s indiscretions? To invite me to Laguna Beach for the weekend? To allow another man to make love to her? To tell that man she wanted to wear his ring? Would she ever dare to hope, wish and dream about marrying someone else? Would she have ever cried uncontrollably over the phone? How come she couldn’t quit me if she truly wanted to be married to Jackson? Why would she ever threaten him with divorce or leave the house at times? Would she have ever told me about escaping to Laguna Beach to feel close to me? Why couldn’t she see that it was a marriage to a man who dishonored her that led her to feel she betrayed her kids? What kind of man would I be if I never allowed her time to see the truth? It was her marriage that betrayed her kids, not our love. How could any attempt by me to defend the honor of the woman I loved, be looked upon as driving her to stay in her marriage? Either way, her marriage was no good for anyone and if I was going to be the casualty of it, then I refused to accept its continued existence.

One question I really needed to know was why her husband wasn’t her friend on Facebook. It then dawned on me that the reason she hasn’t contacted me was because she likely surrendered her phone to him. He probably even took her laptop away and the reason why he wasn’t her Facebook friend was because it was his account, not Anya’s—only set up to trap me. The best way of reaching her was to send a letter to her home since she would likely get it while he was at work. Hand delivering would’ve been my preferred option, but my heart wouldn’t be able to take her unwillingness to accept the letter. I just needed her to read it.

If I never mailed this letter to Anya, I’d never know if a chance still existed. I didn’t believe a teenager would ever post a picture of their father proposing to their mother as a profile picture on Facebook. Something had to be wrong at home and Anya needed to know I was still there to catch her. If I was wrong about all I said in my text barrage, and I hoped I was, she remained the only one in my heart. For all she knew, Anya probably thought I moved on as if she never existed. Most men she knew easily could, but that wasn’t me—I truly loved her. After all the we shared, moving on was an impossibility. I never held on to disrespect her wishes, I only held on because I still loved her. Since there was no trust in her marriage anymore, Jackson likely demanded her to stay home unless she had to drive the kids somewhere. That also made it hard to hand deliver the letter—it had to be sent to her home. Even at the height of our love, I never drove by her home. Even when I feared her dishonesty, I never felt compelled to follow her to see if she was lying to me. For all I knew, Jackson asked their neighborhood police official to trail her if she left the house. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was ordered by Jackson to follow her when she visited me at times too. He may have even arranged it so she didn’t have to leave the house at all—by hiring other people to drive the kids around to keep her at home. Only her freedom was limited now and not her love for me.

What could go wrong if I sent the letter? Could I get charged for harassment and stalking? I didn’t know, but if she fought so hard for two years to keep us a secret, would she risk having to divulge all the details of our relationship? When I planned, or threatened in her eyes, to talk to Jackson, it wasn’t to enlighten him on the details of our relationship, but to let him know we were in love with each other. The same way Jay Gatsby in “The Great Gatsby” wanted Tom to know—so the two people who belonged together would be together. In Anya’s eyes, she saw me as the bad guy because she believed it only gave Jackson power over her. At the same time how could she have dared to pursue a serious relationship with me and allow him to have any power over her?

I couldn’t live my life with any regrets. If I didn’t send Anya the letter, and took Tobey’s advice, life would remain still and nothing moved without energy. While she remained in my heart, I refused to live a life in total silence. I had to know if the flame still burned inside her heart—a fire I’d rather be burnt by than believing it wasn’t there.