It was the summer of 2011, and it was hot. The humid Georgia days stuck on me like glue, but I didn’t mind. I was the happiest I had been in a while. I had a job I loved and new friends who felt like old friends. Not to mention an apartment complex with a pool.
The past year had been full of disappointments and loneliness. Sure, it had had its finer moments, like apple picking in the fall and Nicaragua in the spring, but it also left my bedroom floor stained from tears. I wondered if the best was in the past, where I had had purpose and people understood me.
I moved to Georgia earlier that summer, leaving behind those hurts and tears with every mile I drove on I-75.
I was afraid but hopeful.
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