He sat at the picnic table and broke my heart.

Long empty days passed, my mouth unable to form the words that could possibly express my sorrow and regret so I poured too much liquor into it instead. Then I poured tears onto my pillow, the one that will never again be next to his.

I still have clothes from the trip in my trunk because I can’t even look at them. I can’t smell the campfire smoke that sunk into the threads, I can’t see the straps he pulled off my shoulders as we played in the river.

I don’t know if I will ever go camping again.

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