I watch the door close.
I stand there long after there’s nothing left to see.
This is fine. This is what healthy people do. I’m fine.
• • •
One afternoon — four days in, maybe five, time has gone strange — I watch them come outside together.
They sit on his front steps.
She says something.
He laughs.
That laugh.
The real one.
The rare one.
The one I thought was mine.
I step back from the window so he won’t see me.
My hands are shaking.
That night I can’t sleep.
I lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling and let the anxiety do what it does — run the same loop over and over and over.
He kissed me.
He chose her.
He kissed me.
He chose her.
Two kisses and he chose her.
• • •
By morning I’ve made a decision.
His dad leaves for work at seven-thirty.
I know because I’ve watched him leave my entire life.
Suit. Briefcase. The same cold posture Cassian has been running from since he was old enough to understand what cold meant.
Seven thirty-five, the driveway is empty.
• • •
I wait until eight.
Then I go.
