I was waiting for her to respond like she always did—scratching a line in the margin and teasing me for being too dramatic. She would ask whether I meant what I wrote.
I pressed the postcard flat against my chest, fingers trembling. "I don't know who I am without you."
We never had kids. We told ourselves we didn't need to. We had students, books, plans, and conversations that stretched long into the night. That was enough—until it wasn't. We'd started to talk about maybe trying or adopting, and then the accident stole that entire chapter before it even began.
It was a car crash in the middle of the day. Marissa was driving home from a conference outside Tacoma.
I didn't even hear her voicemail that she was on the way until after the police had already been to the hospital. A doctor tried to soften the news, like that would help. Nothing softens that kind of trauma.
Everyone kept saying how sorry they were. They cheered how strong I was and how lucky we'd been to have each other.
None of it meant anything. Not then.
And maybe still not now.
Indulging in personal therapy, I taught a six-week grief theory course sponsored by a local funeral home. We read literature soaked in it.
None of it helps when fate smashes your heart into pieces.
Kubler-Ross can go to hell.
I once made a bingo card during a grief therapy group session. I didn't show it to anyone, but I kept it tucked in the back of my journal. "Everything happens for a reason,""She's in a better place,"and "At least you had time to say goodbye" were among the choices.
I never hit bingo, but I came close.
The grief didn't leave me when I met Michael, but it shifted slightly. It was like tectonic plates rubbing, promising something new would rise someday—even if it wasn't there yet.
A seagull screeched overhead, sudden and sharp. I flinched more than I should have. The beach was still empty. Still quiet. But for a second, I had the strange sense I wasn't alone, probably only nerves firing in a new situation.
My thoughts returned to Michael and what our connection meant.
I'd always known I was bisexual.
It wasn't something I struggled with or repressed. It was a quiet fact of my interior geography—like being left-handed or knowing I hated cilantro.
I'd fallen in love with Marissa, and that had been real. Full. True.
It didn't mean I hadn't noticed how certain men moved through the world. It was just that I'd never followed that thread. There wasn't a reason.
Until now.
Until him.
I don't know what changed. Maybe it wasn't a change at all. Perhaps it was the right season or the right time.
Maybe grief finally tore a hole in me big enough for something else to slip through. Or, through random luck, Michael appeared at the right moment, standing there like a question I hadn't let myself ask.
I didn't have a plan, not even now.
There was no thunderbolt of awakening. It was the way he looked at me—direct and unflinching.
It wasn't about gender. It was about his presence. Yes—there was attraction. It was strong enough to rattle me.
It was there last night in every touch and every breathless second between our few words.
The surprising part was how safe he made me feel. It was like the grief and guilt could live inside the same space as my attraction to Michael.
I'd expected to feel shame.
