My name’s Briar. I’m 28. This all happened on Valentine’s Day—and honestly, I’m still annoyed about the tiny heart-shaped butter pats.
For context: I’ve been enrolled in an EMT course for months now. It’s not some “cute little class.” It’s the first thing I’ve truly wanted this badly since I was a kid.
I even quit my job for it—because my boyfriend, Jace, insisted.
“Briar, you’re burning out,” he told me. “Let me handle rent while you focus. Two months and you’re certified.”
I hesitated. “What if something happens?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
Something happened.
