Adrenaline rushing through every vein in your pale, frail body. Lists and lists and more lists categorizing every person you ever loved, every object you’ve felt sentimental towards. An abandoned platinum diamond wedding ring, the fine point art that veteran made for you in Carlsbad, your first published novel.
Make a third list of everything you’ve ever wanted to do. Knock as many out as you can. It will only be about ⅕ because you are already too weak to hardly leave your townhouse. You just can’t ever do enough in a day, a feeling of life fleeting consuming your entire being.
You will contact all of them. Every single one of your exes, even the ones that barely counted in grade school. You will tell them all, but one, within the first ten seconds. You will laugh with some, cry with others, and endure awkward silences with a few. A couple will want to fly to you right away, be at your bedside, waiting on you 24/7. But you will lie and tell them you do not need that kind of help yet. You will call when you need them.
The one that loves you most will leave while you are sleeping one night, unable to say a permanent goodbye. And you will understand, pulling the soft white comforter closer to your chin so it catches all of your mascara-stained tears.
This is how you(we) do this, my love. This is how you(we) enter the beginning of the end.