Without Ethan, life felt… empty. Like the house echoed louder, the walls were closer, and my own thoughts were too loud. It wasn't the kind of loneliness that begged for someone's presence but the kind that made you realize how long you've been missing yourself.
The silence I once used as a weapon was now gnawing at me, especially during the long days. At night, I still curled up and swallowed my sadness like bitter pills. But during the day, when the house stood still and my fingers had nothing to do, my mind would wander to places I didn't want to revisit. Places filled with questions I didn't have the answers to.
So I knew I had to do something. I needed to fill my time.
I had applied to a few jobs. A lot, actually, but the callbacks were slow. And waiting? Waiting without purpose made the ache worse.
One morning, I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, and really looked at myself. My skin was dull. My eyes were always puffy. My hair, which used to bounce in soft waves, now hung limply from neglect. This wasn't me. This wasn't the woman Ethan fell in love with. But more importantly, this wasn't the woman I fell in love with.
I whispered something to myself I hadn't said in years.
"You need to love you again."
So I started small.
I pulled out my old yoga mat from the guest room closet and dusted it off. I downloaded a couple of workout apps and pressed play. The first ten minutes were hell. The instructor was chipper, the poses felt like torture, and I could barely do half the reps. But when it was over, I sat on the floor, sweaty and panting, and I cried.
Not because of the pain. But because it was the first time in forever I felt alive again.
And pain, somehow, was my motivation.
The soreness in my muscles reminded me that I could still feel. That I was still here. That I wasn't completely numb.
I kept at it. Morning workouts became part of my routine. Then I added music. I'd blast my favorite songs, the ones Ethan used to call "too loud," and I'd dance like I had no one watching because I didn't.
When I was done, I'd look in the mirror, and the woman staring back started to resemble someone I almost recognized.
One morning, I decided to go to an actual gym.
I was nervous, terrified, really but I needed fresh air, real people, and maybe someone to remind me that I wasn't alone in this world.
That's when I met her.
Lindsey.
It started with something simple. We were next to each other on the treadmill. She glanced at me when my earbuds fell and laughed when I muttered a curse.
"You okay over there?" she asked, offering me a tissue to wipe the sweat off my brow.
I nodded, breathless. "Trying to survive."
She laughed. "Aren't we all?"
That was it.
But somehow, we ended up stretching together after our workout, sharing smoothies in the juice bar, and exchanging numbers.
From there, a friendship blossomed. Effortless. Real. Exactly what I didn't know I was missing.
Lindsey was a wildfire bold, loud, sarcastic, and alive. She talked about waxing horror stories with no shame, took me out for manicures and pedicures, dragged me to weekend markets, and made me laugh so hard I'd forget my heart was bruised.
"Girl, if you're going to cry, at least do it with fabulous nails," she'd say.
We started calling our weekly outings "healing days." We'd wax and scream, laugh through the pain, eat ice cream after workouts, and take long walks while talking about everything from stupid exes to childhood dreams.
She helped me buy new outfits things Ethan would've hated. Bold colors, short skirts, tight jeans. "You have legs, babe. Let the world see them."
Sometimes we shopped using Ethan's cards. And strangely, it made me feel empowered. I told myself it was repayment. For the pain. For the lost years. For the nights I cried myself to sleep while he smiled at someone else's text.
We baked cookies in her apartment and lifted dumbbells like we were training for battle. In many ways, we were.
And slowly… I began to laugh again.
Smile without forcing it.
Dance without needing permission.
Live without waiting.
She brought color back into my grayscale world.
The sunlight poured lazily into the apartment as Lindsey and I lay sprawled on the couch, still in our gym tights, sipping lemon water and catching our breath. Our legs tangled under the throw blanket, a familiar comfort after weeks of working out and talking about everything and sometimes nothing.
My phone was between us, and we were swiping through pictures we'd taken at the gym. Most were goofy selfies, flexed muscles, and blurry mirror shots. We laughed at our sweaty faces and smug poses.
And then, she froze.
"Wait," Lindsey said, her voice suddenly tight. "Can you go back?"
I blinked, confused. "What?"
"That guy." She tapped the screen. It was a photo of Ethan and me, his arm lazily draped around my waist. He looked good in that picture. Calm. Collected. Like he always did.
"I know him," she said slowly. "I met him on Tinder. A few months ago."
I laughed, hollow and automatic. "You're joking."
She didn't smile. "I'm not. He went by a different name, I think… Eric? We talked for a while. He was charming. Flirty. Said he was in tech."
The blood drained from my face. My fingers trembled as I clutched the phone.
"This is Ethan," I whispered.
"My husband."