I stared at my phone. At the email. At the messages. And I understood with devastating clarity that Tyler had not joked about a funeral.
He had been scheduling one. In the months that followed, court proceedings unfolded with painful precision, protective orders were issued, and Tyler’s actions were laid bare in language stripped of emotion yet heavy with consequence.
Healing did not arrive dramatically or suddenly, because recovery rarely respects cinematic pacing, but slowly, through ordinary mornings, cautious breathing, and the quiet rebuilding of safety.
I did not lose my life that night. I reclaimed it. And that distinction changed everything.
