James Sinclair
The dream hit me like a freight train.
At first, everything felt too real. Liv was standing there, her back to me, her hair catching the light like strands of spun gold. She looked perfect. But something was wrong—something I couldn't place right away.
"Liv," I called out. She didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge me. I took a step forward, my feet sinking into the ground like I was wading through wet cement.
"Liv, stop."
This time, she did stop. Slowly, she turned around, and the look in her eyes… it wasn’t the Liv I knew. There was no warmth, no affection—just cold detachment.
“I can’t do this anymore, James.”
My stomach churned. “What are you talking about? We can figure this out.”
But she just shook her head, taking a step back, like every word I said pushed
