I am sitting on the floor by the shattered photograph when the lock on the front door begins to turn.
I scramble backward, putting distance between myself and the broken glass, my heart hammering a frantic, useless rhythm in my chest. I don't know what to say to him. I don't know how to ask the terrible questions that are currently screaming in my mind.
Did I die on my birthday? Why am I still here? Why are you pretending?
The door swings open. Ronan walks in, carrying a small stack of mail. He stops in the entryway, his eyes immediately locking onto the broken silver frame lying on the hardwood.
He looks from the frame to me, huddled against the base of the sofa. He doesn't look angry. He just looks incredibly, intensely weary. He sets the mail down on the console table and walks slow
