When the news of my absolute departure reached him, Julian sank to the cold floor, clutching that pull-tab ring in a white-knuckled grip.
The sharp edge had sliced his palm open. He didn't feel it.
He couldn't accept that Vivienne Langley, the woman who'd loved him with every breath, had walked away this cleanly.
He drifted into my old guest room like a ghost and lay down on my narrow bed, trying to catch even a trace of my scent in the empty air. Lying to himself.
For countless nights in this room, the one weeping until dawn had been me. Now it was him.
Under the bed, in a cardboard box, Julian found a pile of miscellany.
On top lay several crumpled medical reports.
Severe major depressive disorder. Psychosomatic disorder. Stress-induced gastric ulceration.
Each word struck like a
