I’d listened to her, throwing myself into work because it was my go-to. Randall called me out on not slowing down at all, but I assured him I would soon — very soon — and I hoped in my heart that was the truth.

One day I was walking home from the office, balancing three manuscripts I planned to devour over the weekend, when my phone buzzed hard in my purse. I’d juggled the pages and my half-empty bottle of water, fumbling for my phone, praying I’d see Jamie’s name. But when I finally fished it out, an unknown number was all that lit the screen — just another call from a telemarketer, or a bill collector with the wrong number, or someone trying to tell me who to vote for in next year’s election. I sighed, hitting the ignore button and dropping it back into my purse before finishing the walk home.

Somewhere around the three-month mark, my anxiety blossomed into desperation and fear. I was barely sleeping, barely eating, and my work was suffering because of it. I was strung out, withdrawal sneaking in, and I tried calling him again. Three times. He didn’t answer any of the calls, and on the third one, I caved and left a voicemail.

“Hey,” I whispered before clearing my throat. “It’s me. Listen,” I paused then, staring out my giant window at Market Square. We were right in the middle of summer, and the city was buzzing with life everywhere but inside my apartment. “I know you had a lot to sort through. I know it’s not as simple as sign a few papers, move her stuff out of your place and call me. I know that. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, which is why I want you to call me anyway — regardless of if you’re ready to see me yet. Let me help you through this, even if it’s just as a friend.” My voice shook a little with my next plea. “You need a friend, Jamie. Please, let me be your friend.”

I hated asking that, because it wasn’t what I wanted — I wanted more. I needed more. We’d tried being friends before, he’d asked me that very sentence time and time again. But having him as a friend was better than not having him at all, and I was starting to worry.

“Just call me, okay?”

I hung up then, dropping my phone to the armrest of my couch before numbly stripping off my clothes on the way to the bathroom. I took a long bath in the dark, only the faint light from my bedroom window sneaking through. I wondered what he was doing, what he was thinking. Was he hurting? Was he afraid? Oh God, was he with her again?

I shook my head against that final thought, convinced it couldn’t be true, but there was really no way for me to know for sure.

Things declined quickly after that.

My fear transformed into anger and hurt, and those two emotions burrowed in between my ribs. Mom tried to talk me down at first, but once it’d been six months without a single word from Jamie, Jenna was firmly on my side. She was pissed, too — and that fueled my fire.

“Can you just… check on him?” I asked her one night.

“That sounds like a terrible idea, B.”

I chewed the pad of my thumb, curling up on my sofa. “I know. I know it does, but I can’t… I just need to know what’s going on. Maybe he’s traveling, you know? Maybe that’s why he hasn’t returned my calls.”

“They have phones in other places in the world. And email.”

Sighing, I planted my feet on the floor and ran a hand through my curls. “Please, Jenna.”

She must have heard it, the desperation in my voice. It came back sometimes, drowning out the anger for a bit, and that night it was winning.

So Jenna checked on him, and it turned out to be the worst thing I could have asked her to do.

“I saw him,” she told me the next night.

“And?”

She was quiet, and my stomach rolled.

“And… he looks fine. He was out at lunch with some work buddies. I saw him on his phone a few times… no girls or anything but, he looks okay. He looks… good.”

The pain that tore through my chest with her words was a strange one. It felt like hot water, growing more intense in temperature as it leaked down deeper and deeper. I couldn’t move away from it, couldn’t cool it down, and it hurt as much as it fueled the anger that had been just below the surface.

I tried calling him one last time, on a night after I’d drowned myself in half a bottle of Jack Daniels. I’d been stalking his social media, not finding anything new at all. He’d been tagged in a few random posts, funny memes and videos, but he hadn’t posted a single photo, a single status, not even a single word. I wasn’t sure if that made it worse or better.

He didn’t answer when I called, just like I knew he wouldn’t, and I thought really hard about leaving him the nastiest voicemail I could muster. I even let it click me over to voicemail, and I breathed into the receiver like a dragon, trying to tame myself yet falling short.

But I ended the call, staring down at my phone for all of four seconds before heaving it across my apartment. It hit the edge of my kitchen counter and splintered across the floor, and I cried.

He’d changed his mind.

Whiskey had made me promise I’d wait, and then he’d never come, stringing me along knowing my addiction was too strong for me to let him go. I’d fallen from the highest high to the lowest low, and now here I was, crumpled in a ball on the floor. I curled in on myself, rocking slightly, and let the tears come freely down my face.

I’d hit all the stages of grief before that night, touching on everything from denial to anger to depression. Now, I was rounding that base, heading home to acceptance. And I knew what had to happen once my feet hit the plate.

I let myself be broken for nearly another month before I started on my own twelve-step program. Step one was admitting that I was powerless over Whiskey — that my life had become unmanageable. He’d completely taken over, and maybe he’d had that hold on me for longer than I’d realized. Every time I thought I was okay without him, he’d show me I wasn’t, and every time I thought I’d be better with him, he proved me wrong. It was a dangerous roller coaster ride and I was done. I wanted off. I wanted solid ground.

So I redefined everything about myself.

I’d checked into rehab once before, but it was a half-assed attempt. My heart hadn’t been in it, I hadn’t wanted to let him go. This time, I did. This time, I had a plan. This time, I’d given myself an intervention.

I was ready to grow up, tired of the games Jamie and I played. I wanted a real love, a real life, and I had to paint the way to get there. It killed me to let him go, and if I’m being honest — I knew I would never let him go completely. A part of him would always live in me, but I wanted that part of me subdued, buried beneath a brighter version of myself who could move on and live her life.