There are moments in life that feel like the hinge of a door — small, ordinary actions that, once done, make returning impossible. Packing the last box in Mark’s living room felt like that: mundane and seismic all at once. I folded a shirt and set it inside the cardboard square, then taped the flaps down with trembling, slightly clumsy hands. The sound of the tape ripping was louder than it should have been in the quiet apartment, like punctuation.
“This is getting real,” I said, and forced a laugh that tasted like metal.
Mark was on the floor, knees bent, filling the boxes with tools he’d promised to sell or donate. He looked up at me, a slow, careful smile on his face that made something ache inside my ribs. “Real is better than this weird half-life,” he said. “Half hiding, half burnin
