It is the fifth day.
The morning sun feels weaker today, as if the light itself is tired of trying to warm this apartment.
Ronan puts on his coat. He has to go to the grocery store. He told me so, his voice carefully neutral, his eyes avoiding the spot near the sofa where I was sitting. Ever since the terrible confrontation over the sympathy card, a fragile, bruising silence has settled over us. We are both walking on eggshells, terrified of triggering another collapse.
I watch him open the front door. The hallway outside is brightly lit, the beige carpet leading down to the elevator bank. It looks incredibly ordinary. It looks real.
A sudden, overwhelming need seizes me. I can't stay in this apartment anymore. This space is a museum of a life I don't remember, a tomb that is slowly er
