No.
I won't be okay.
The thought of being alone makes my chest tight with panic.
But I can't make him stay by my side every second of every day.
That's not fair to him.
That's not who I want to be.
"I'll be fine," I lie. "Go. Do what you need to do."
He studies my face and sees through the lie, but doesn't call me on it.
"Astrid's downstairs. I'll send her up. And I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Okay."
One more kiss—soft, careful, full of things he can't say—and then he's gone.
The room feels too big without him.
Too quiet.
Too full of shadows.
I lie there for a while.
Staring at the ceiling.
Trying not to think about anything.
Failing.
Eventually, I need to use the bathroom.
A simple thing.
Something I've done a million times without thinking.
But now every movement is an ordeal.
Sitting up makes my ribs shriek.
Standing makes me dizzy.
Walking the ten feet to the bathroom door leaves me breathless and sweating.
I grip the doorframe.
Wait for the dizziness to pass.
Then flip on the light.
The bathroom is small but clean.
Typical clubhouse—functional, nothing fancy.
