Sometimes I think too much. This is probably why my room looks like it's been raided, but I digress. Sometimes I think too much. It's just how I am. I've come to terms.

It's never the big preponderances, like the meaning of life or what's at the end of the universe. It's little random things, like did I leave the water running? Who specifically invented the toilet? Or, most important, why does everyone I love leave me?

I could never bring myself to ask but, my parents, my husband, and all the men I've ever loved before him, all seem to see something in me that no matter how long I stand in front of the mirror and despite years of therapy, I can't find.

I haven't been to therapy in years. I only attend to be the guinea pig in my father's research, and he hooks me up with medical grade. It's fair trade. They ask me questions, I give them shallow answers and let them use my DNA in his research. Now that they're in phase two they don't need me anymore and that's great because I fucking hate therapy.

It's always the same. The problem is something you've made up in your head. If not, sometimes the problem is you. Or my favorite, my issues are somewhere in my past.

I get told that every time I sit in one of those fucking chairs. They don't get the past is really not a place I like to dwell but I remember a therapist telling me once that writing things down sometimes help things makes sense and I'm desperate so, fuck it, dear journal, let's begin.

I was fifteen. A little over five years into my new life in New York City when I met future MMA champion Kellen 'Kayo' Riaz. Back then I called him Kelly.

Kelly was this brooding bad boy type who went to a rough school a few blocks from my own. I was a pantomime. I had a few friends and I played for the school basketball team but before him, I was just existing.

I attended West View High School, a prestigious non-denominational in Tribeca with unflattering blue and gray uniforms. A school that likes to brag about being the home of some of our country's great innovators, as if our state wasn't ground zero for the New Gen boom.

Even to this day, they boast success stories like my brother Wren, who at only twenty-four, is one of our state's youngest and most formidable panel lawyers; and Jamal Miller, who brought home the first championship ring for the Brooklyn Nets since the seventies.

It was Jamal that introduced me to Kellen. It's a little known fact that the half Colombian, half Middle Eastern phenom with his olive complexion and sharp facial features is related to the young baller.

The two haven't spoken since I had revenge sex with Jamal, but when I was fifteen, we had no idea that a simple introduction would change the rest of our lives.

"Hey Rue," Jamal called, bounding over to me as Brielle, Emily and I cleared out from an emergency basketball practice.

"Hey, I thought only girls had practice today?" I smiled up at the then already five-foot-eleven fifteen-year-old boy.

Jamal was my first crush. He has smooth, brown skin, full lips and predominant brown eyes with a playful half-smile.

"Yeah, I was waiting for you," he said with that swoon-worthy gleam.

"For what?" Brielle narrowed her eyes.

Brielle never liked Jamal. She was adopted by her mothers from a small town in Puerto Rico when she was old enough to remember her old life. Hood boys like Jamal gave my best friend hives.

Jamal was a STARS kid; a program in the school that allowed talented kids from around the city to attend at no charge.

In the aftermath of The Hudson Project, our city was met with an influx of excellence. Brilliant minds and powerful bodies springing from all walks of life. Someone in the school's administration decided to capitalize; openly searching for kids like Jamal who came from this rough part of Lower Manhattan that tourists don't know exists.

"For none of your business," he returned her scornful expression.

"Hey Bre, didn't you want pizza?" Emily grinned, taking Brielle's arm and looking toward the dollar pizza shop across the street.

"No—" Brielle frowned, not catching our slightly older friend's hint.

"Yeah, totally wanted pizza. Hey, Rue, we're going to get pizza." she said the word with  innuendo.

"Okay...?" I replied, watching her drag Brielle across the street.

"What's her problem?" Jamal shook his head, taking my hand.

"You?" I replied, liking how our hands looked together while he led me down the street.

I didn't start paying attention to boys until they started paying attention to me. Brielle liked to play basketball and we spent one summer riding our bikes uptown to play.

I didn't notice I had been shedding pounds until my underwear no longer fit. By my last year of junior high, I lost sixty pounds and discovered I wasn't ugly, just not someone that can pull off the plump look.

Jamal was also my second kiss. When I was fourteen, we were locked in a closet for a game of seven minutes in heaven. It had been a year since someone's mouth had touched mine and I clammed up.

Jamal assumed I had never kissed a boy and I spent six minutes learning. He barely said six words to me after that.

"Where are we going?" I questioned while we made our way around to the back of the school.

"There's someone who wants to meet you," Jamal said, before swinging me forward into a guy who was leaning against a large black car.

Kellen's slender body felt like a brick to my face as Jamal introduced his delivery. "Kel-Rue, Rue-Kel."

Kellen was strong for his size, he was sixteen and a half with a slender muscular build at his adult height of five-feet-nine.

"Ow, what's your deal!" I rubbed my nose.

Kellen took me by the chin and examined my face. He was stunning. From his intense brown eyes to the gentle cadence of his voice, looking at him made my heart skip a beat.

"You okay?" he asked with a curious smile.

"Yeah." I smiled back, holding in a squeal as he tilted his head in that way I loved.

"I'm Kel." he looked at me with complete fascination.

"I just said that," Jamal complained.

"I'm Rue," I replied, sure I had just met the love of my life.

Present

My alarm goes off. It's time for work but I didn't sleep. I had been doing a lot of reading. Throughout the years I saved every letter Gage had written me. Letters, notes, cards if it was created by his hands, I've cherished it obsessively.

Last night, I read every one, down to the four hundred color-coordinated scrolls from the love jar he gave me when he left on his mission last year.

Red are things I love about you. Hot pink are memories; most are perverted so... read them alone. Powdered pink are quotes that make me think of you, and white is every single thing I want to do when I get back, he held up a large mason jar. Read one every day; It will remind you just how much I love you while I'm gone, Gage kissed the top of my head as I greedily eyed the jar. One a day, Rue, he laughed, reading my mind.

What if I'm having a terrible day? I pouted ready to crack the jar open and consume.

I know how impatient you can be, which is why there are four hundred notes instead of three sixty-five. Just try. Let's see how long you can go without instant gratification, he teased placing it on top of the red rounded table in our open floor kitchen.

Sometimes a girl needs a quick fix, I smirked, reaching for his belt.

Gage laughed, stopping my hands. My flight is at seven hundred, he reminded me, his half smile telling me we both knew I would get my way.

Guess that means we should make this quick. I grinned, pulling him into my arms.

We were so in love back then. Gage had returned from his mission a month early and something was different. His smile was softer. Almost forced. His touch was more urgent, and sometimes I would find him sitting in the dark looking broken and confused.

He was promoted to Captain two months later. At twenty-six he is one of the youngest in USMC history, but it didn't make him happy. I thought it was the job but now I know it was me.

I read every letter until my eyes burned, trying to find the correlation between their author and the man who left me. When I was done I still couldn't sleep so I wrote, but as those stupid bells chime I know it was a bad idea.

My head is spinning. I look at the tornado spill of papers surrounding me and sigh because I know I will have to clean it up. Not now though. Rising to my feet, I shower and dress for work.

I wear a white linen dress and comfortable shoes. As the manager of a high-end small town jewelry boutique, I can wear anything I damn well please, but decide to at least try to look like I put in some effort. I tie my long curly brown hair into a messy bun and opt to go without makeup, rushing for the door.

"You look like shit," Thatcher hands me my morning cup of coffee he always brings from home.

Thatcher Green: best friend, work husband, total bitch. Thatcher has warm dark brown skin, narrow eyes, a clean-cut beard and two moon-shaped studs in his ears. He's wearing dark J.Crew pants, a blue plaid button shirt, a tan tweed jacket with a blue pocket square, a tie, and white shoes.

I threaten to scuff the shoes.

"Testy," he says, as I let us in to set up.

"Very," I sip my drink, heading behind the display to cut on the lights.

I'm keeping whatever is happening to myself. At least until I know for myself what the hell is happening. Thatcher makes small-talk about the cute guy he met while visiting the city and I pretend to care until the conversation shifts to me.

"So, how are things in Casa Medina?" he asks.

"Fine." I lie.

"Must be, you look like you've been up all night," he teases.

"Yep." The coffee makes me feel like my body is giving up on me. Something is telling me I have maybe a few minutes before I shut down completely. "I'm going to place some orders," I say, giving him a small smile before heading for the back office.

I can't honestly say what triggered me but suddenly the world feels like it's closing in. I don't make it to my chair; collapsing by the door with my forehead pressed to the rug silently begging for the pain to stop.

I can't do this. I can't live without him. Gage is my forever. My world. The happy ending to a fucked up fairy tale. I can't lose him.

"Rue!" Thatcher calls from the front of the shop.

I don't have the energy to stop myself. I'm spiraling. Tears rolling down my cheeks, I take pained shallow breaths, hugging my torso and wondering who am I without Gage.

"Hello?" he impatiently calls again, his voice closer than moments before.

I can't stop. It's the supermarket all over again.

"I'm going to run to the diner do you—" Thatcher says, stopping mid-sentence when he finds me a crumpled mess. "Oh my God Rue!" he exclaims, rushing to my side.

Great, I guess the cat is out of the bag.