Six hundred and seven days have passed since Sharon was stolen from me. Not a day goes by I don’t think of her.
If you could mix joy, insecurity, and a broken heart together in a bowl, that was her smile. It was like she knew if she smiled too freely, someone would come along and squash it. Her plain brown eyes made her a knockout. Nothing was hotter than a woman who didn’t realize the depth of her beauty. Even so, it’s getting harder each day to remember her face. Hanging some pictures back on the wall would probably help. Then again, it may hurt even more.
Nights are the worst part. So many times I wake thinking she’s next to me, only to relive the moment I’ll never forget. Maybe that’s my own stupid fault for never changing her pillowcase. Sometimes it still smells of her, and washing it would be like making her die all over again.
Yes, sleep comes hard, but mostly because I won’t let it take hold. And when it does, I curse myself in the morning if I haven’t dreamt of her.
It was the soft squeak of my bedroom door that finally interrupted my pity party. My daughter, no doubt, because Danny bursts in like the house is on fire. But Nat always hesitates, listening for my breathing before saying anything. If I feigned snoring, I’d hear the unmistakable muffled click of the closing door.
So, I held my breath.
Yawn central. This is a first page. You need a twist at the end to make me want to read. 250 words is pretty harsh for getting a twist in there, but it can be done: we've seen it earlier here.