I never really had a language for grief. And if I did, it was only around death.

My grandmother died when I was seven. I was old enough to understand what had happened and experience the sense of loss, kind of. It was my first experience with grief. But my parents rarely talked about it.

My mom would cry quietly for the next few months in the bathroom. And on every major anniversary. But, aside from the funeral, I never actually saw her cry, just the aftermath. Puffy, bloodshot eyes with a little too much water around the edges. We weren’t allowed to mention it.

When I was 14 and experienced my first heartbreak, my mom told me to move on. He wasn’t right for me, things end, and life’s a bitch. He’s not worth the tears.

Chin up, it’s time to move on. And I live by that.

I didn’t cry when my dad left us for a new family. When my brother cut us off and went to live with our grandparents. When my sister moved away. When I did. Again and again and again.

So tell me why I’m crying now? Heaving, body shaking, snot bubbling sobs that make my back ache and my eyes go blurry.

It didn’t feel like telling him I’m moving would be this hard. I’ve said goodbye before.

But when I told him my job was transferring me 1,732 miles away, that I’d be leaving in two days, I think something died.

I’m not sure if I mean in me, in him, in the universe, in all of the above. But something died.

I think I killed it.

I almost couldn’t tell him. I’d waited until a few days before my flight. Even though he knew this was always part of the deal, we both did. I never stay in one place long.

He was staring at me across the table at our favorite restaurant. We come every week. He had a stupid little smile on his face as he dug into the korma we were sharing.

And then I did it.

I told him I’m leaving.

It happened right as he was ripping off a piece of naan for me. He had his arm outstretched, naan in hand, and I couldn’t accept it.

I didn’t deserve it.

I was tearing us apart, despite all the kindness and compassion and grace he’d shown me. Despite all our shared nights and inside jokes and honest conversations. He’d shown me what it feels like to be safe, to be vulnerable, to be loved for all that I am.

And yet here I am, telling him I’m leaving.

His smile dropped for a split second as he lowered his hand. I hardly heard what he said, something about how excited he was for me. I must’ve kept talking, he seemed to be responding to something I was saying, but the noise had drained from the room.

All I could focus on was his eyes. I couldn’t stop myself. The thinly veiled hurt there was overwhelming. It was like the light I’d always loved about him had been snuffed.

I’d never even told him I loved him.

All I could see was his sadness, his grief. It mirrored my own. It was a deep, aching wave of sadness. Grief started in my chest and shook my breath, pouring over me. I was barely keeping my own head above water in the middle of the dinner rush. I only half tried to hide it with a polite smile.

I managed to make it back to my apartment, although I have no idea how. I walked straight to my bathroom, tears already crawling down my face. I found myself in the shower and turned the hot water as high as I could bear it before my knees gave out. White-knuckle gripping them in a fetal position. Fully clothed. Sobbing like a child.

At some point my body hurt too much to keep crying. I turned the water off, peeled off my clothes, and laid on the bathroom floor, wrapped in the robe and towel I dragged off their hooks.

The movers knocked on my door at 3 p.m. the next day, right on time. But I was still on the bathroom floor. There was nothing I could do about how I looked opening the door: puffy, bloodshot eyes with a little too much water around the edges. They were kind enough not to mention it.

I stumbled through my last day in the city, spending most of my time in my empty apartment dodging calls and texts from him.

I stared at the texts. He was offering to help me move or to buy me dinner one last time before I left. I couldn’t respond.

It took me another day to muster up the courage to listen to his voicemails. I was sitting in the backseat of my Uber to the airport. The tears came again, silently this time but no less violent. I gasped for air between sobs as his slightly tinny voice came through the phone:

“Hey, it’s me again. You’re probably in the middle of moving or maybe even getting on a plane soon… um anyway, I wanted you to know I’m going to miss you… and, uh, I hope you don’t forget to come home every so often. I promise I’ll have dinner waiting for you when you do. Have fun on this next adventure.”

The Uber driver didn’t say anything as my sobs became more obvious, shaking my whole body with each breathe. What was there to say anyway?

That I didn’t want to leave.

That I’d never been happier in my whole life than the past year and a half.

That he’d been all I could think about from the moment we’d met and he’d never left my mind since.

That I love him.

But I can’t. Staying isn’t an option.

And I don’t know how to grieve him.

Where is love found?

Is it in the apples My mother sliced for me Every afternoon After school With peanut butter on the side?

Is it in the sandwich My father made for me Lunch meat Cheese And white bread With chips on the side?

Is it in the roast dinner My grandmother made for me Every Easter, Thanksgiving, And Christmas With mashed potatoes And gravy on the side?

Where is love found? In the kitchen.

In the recipes Passed down for generations And ingredients Chosen carefully With love at the center And napkins on the side.

“You’ve been working on this presentation for months.” “No one else in the room knows about this topic better than you.” “You’re a strong, confident woman that is going to kick ass… but, like, in a professional way.”

I stare at myself in the fluorescent light of the office bathroom. I notice I’ve been grabbing the sink so hard I can’t feel my fingertips anymore. Okay. It’s showtime.

“I’m strong. I’m confident. I’m capable. I’m strong. I’m confident. I’m …” Oh god. They’re all looking at me.

My head has that cloudy feeling where it feels like all the insides of my head are clogging all the holes on the outside of my head.

My eyelids are sweating.

Am I going to pass out?

I can’t see anything.

What’s happening? Should I say something? Have I already said something?

My brain is running down my throat. I can’t breathe.

…

I’m staring up at the ceiling, counting the cobwebs stretched across every corner my mom could never reach with the broom.

I can hear my mom. She’s singing along to Whitney Houston in the next room.

I’m laying in the sun, draped across the carpeted floor in a strange little pose shaped like the old orange cat next to me.

I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am now. Laying in this mid-afternoon beam with nowhere to be.

Everything seems so simple from here.

I can hear Jenkins purring next to me, like a little furry engine.

How lucky I am to share in this little creature’s joy.

…

Is the presentation over?

Fuck. I don’t remember a single thing I said.

My ears are sweating now.

Did I even do it? Is it obvious I’m covered in sweat and wish I was dead?

No. They’re smiling. It went well. They’re smiling and clapping and… fuck.

Ken is asking me a question.

I can’t answer a question. I don’t even remember giving the presentation! What is he saying?

My brain is dying a heat death. Soon there will be nothing left.

Am I crying? My eyes are so blurry I can’t see Ken’s face anymore.

My head feels tight. My throat feels tight. It’s like my body’s been Saran wrapped over my insides.

…

Some British narrator is filling up my ears now. Something about the rise of fascism in Italy and dictators and blah blah blah.

It’s rolling out of my dad’s truck speakers, swirling around like a never ending stream of boring little history marbles I didn’t want to collect in 7th grade and I sure as hell don’t want to collect now.

My dad is nodding along with the British narrator. Raising his brow at every twist and turn in the story. As if this didn’t happen a billion boring years ago.

But I sit and listen and nod along with my dad and his boring audiobook.

He got it from the last truck stop.

I rolled my eyes when he excitedly set it on the counter among my Arizona tea and Gardetto’s snack mix and his Diet Pepsi.

But I can’t help but smile at my dad’s love for this British man we met at the truck stop - even if the man sounds like he’s trying to win a competition for the most pretentious sounding man ever to walk the Earth.

My dad takes a sip from his Diet Pepsi and holds out his hand for a bite of my Gardetto’s.

I’m careful to only give him the rye chips

…

I think it’s over now.

I’m walking back to my seat. Ken is looking thoughtful so I must’ve said something intelligent.

Or so unfathomably stupid he’s trying to figure out how I managed to survive this long.

They’re giving me the polite golf clap.

But is it a good golf clap? Does it feel like it has some passion behind it?

It’s probably a bad golf clap. Jeanine definitely looks like her eyes are fighting the urge to roll with more passion than an Olympic gymnast.

No.

She’s making eye contact. She gave me a thumbs up AND a smile!

I think it’s going to be okay.

Fuck. I need a drink and a call to my therapist.

Journal Entry: May 16, 2017

Ah the hunt! What an ancient and honorable craft - so thrilling! As if every time I put my hand to the earth to feel the warmth of a footprint or taste the freshness of a snapped twig I can feel generations of my ancestors flowing through me with all their knowledge and excitement.

I had become quite bored, as you know, without the hunt for a whole of six months and 21 days. But huzzah! The island boy came to me last night with a new specimen, quite unexpectedly! He said there was a boat that became ensnared in the island’s reef and there was but one survivor. It’s just as well, this allows me some well-deserved fun.

A gorgeous specimen the island boy procured for me. She is lithe, quick, and seems to be of above average intelligence. Defiant and feisty if her words are any indication. This hunt promises to be one with more equal footing than the last. Although she will surely be killed in the end, as is the natural order of things, she may be my specimen, my prey, for more than two days. Oh how exciting a thought!

If all has gone according to plan, she should have had a head start of precisely 24 hours. I do hope she has used her time wisely. It would be so disappointing to find her cowering in a tree like a common cat or in a hole like a spider that cannot bear to face the world. If I wanted to hunt for cats or bears, I would not waste away in boredom waiting for the perfect specimen for such long periods. No. I think she will be clever, my specimen.

I am beginning to enter what I call my “predator mind” now. My senses begin to sharpen. I can almost hear my specimen’s battle as she clamps her hand over her mouth to silence her cries, taking jagged steps as she attempts to dodge the many traps I have laid just for her, the thumping of her heart as she wonders when her luck will run out.

Today the hunt begins for the king of the beasts: human.