After getting a lift home, I’m now at one of my favorite parks in Seattle. A place I hoped might calm me. Sadly, I have no such luck. Instead, I’m going through the motions, forcing myself to do my usual five-mile run.
And judging by the way the contents of my stomach are sloshing around and rebelling at that fact, I’m about to puke. Either from drinking an obscene amount of tequila last night or from the memory of molesting my bestie. Take your pick.
My lungs burn and my heart is in my throat, but I press on, pushing my legs faster, even though I know I can’t outrun the memory of what I did last night. Adele sings in my ears about lost love, and my chest heaves as I suck in painful gasps.
I haven’t been loved and experienced bone-crushing heartbreak like Adele, so I don’t know the agon
