The ring that sits perpetually on the third finger of my left hand was not given to me by my husband, and I am acutely aware of this.

To wear this ring is my own personal form of punishment, the way I force myself to recall the past which seems so distant now. Some days I wake up and it is the first thing that enters my head. Others, I take no notice until well after darkness falls, as I crawl into bed. On the worst days, I forget completely. And those are the days when I awaken in the dead of night, screaming from the pain and terror, drenched in sweat and tears. Once, I was surrounded by my friends; now, I see them only in my nightmares.

I live alone, but it wasn’t always this way. These days there is no one to stop me from living in the past, so I do…and I love it, I love it because the past is so much better than the present or the future. I am thirty-six, standing in front of a house I cannot see but that I know is there and wondering if anyone is watching the tears roll down my cheeks. I am nineteen, kissing the boy whose lips taste like blood and ash, saying ‘I do’ as the world crumbles at our feet. But mostly I am seventeen, pretty and perfect and happy and stupid. I am seventeen and I am the silliest girl there is, but I am not broken, not broken yet.

I am seventeen and I wear rose-colored glasses wherever I go, glasses that I know will be shattered before long but I cannot bring myself to take them off.