He looks exactly like the man in those photographs. The same face, just older. In those pictures, I look in love with him. But sitting here now, beside him in the quiet, I don’t feel it. Not even a flicker of it. I’ve been trying so hard to fall back into that love, to revive something that doesn’t seem to exist anymore. And in doing that, I haven’t even built a friendship with him. We were never rebuilding. We were forcing something dead to breathe.
Maybe that’s where I went wrong. Instead of starting from the ground up, I kept reaching for a feeling that vanished the night I was left bleeding in that alley. I kept chasing it like it was something I’d dropped, and not something that had been torn away from me.
The police say I was going to see my sister. That I mentioned her at some poi
