You want to send the letter to Branson, and you’re on the second draft by the time you’re at Mokkiji Shabu. The steam from the hot pot steams the tear streaming down your right cheek. Your writing hits a nerve.
“I am becoming the woman I want to see. The woman who doesn’t need to keep dating men any longer just to validate her worth.
And the man who once treated her with respect, patience, and kindness is the ghost that leads me to you..”
It was the last drunken straw that broke the camel’s