The next day, I’m still hurting. More than I did yesterday. My heart misses him. Our hugs and cuddles and kisses. Kissing Jackson is not the same. It only makes me feel emptier, a hurtful reminder I’m doing the wrong thing to heal.
I pick the phone from the dresser and smile at the text. It’s from Jackson. He wants to know if I’ll be at the Friday game so I can have his shirt. I send him a quick reply and he promises to bring it to school tomorrow when he comes to pick me up.
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