Each breath was a reminder of where I was and why. I found his room at the hospital. The door was slightly open, and through the crack, I saw him. Pascal. My Pascal, who was all sharp smiles, was now a broken sculpture placed on white pillows. His left arm was a monstrous thing, enclosed in plaster and suspended in a sling. A tapestry of purple and yellow bruises bloomed across his face. A dark, ugly scar lying comfortably against his pale skin.
Unlike yesterday, this sight of injury would have shattered me. Now, a strange peace had settled in me a bit. He was, as the doctors had cautiously said, ‘a bit better.’ And my mom, who had stayed with him all night, had already gone home, so she could have a warm shower.
“Millie,” he called out to me, his one good eye focusing on me as I entered
