Wright:
The door closes.
And it’s like someone just detonated a charge inside my rib cage.
I stand in that living room surrounded by her scent, her hoodie draped over the chair, her hair tie on the counter, the blanket she curled up in still holding the shape of her body.
And she’s gone.
She walked out to save me.
To save my future.
To protect something I don’t even want if she’s not in it.
The scream starts somewhere low in my chest and claws its way out — ugly, unrestrained, ripped out of something feral.
I grab the nearest thing — a stack of textbooks — and throw them. They slam into the wall, scattering across the floor.
I rip the bedding off the couch.
I kick the coffee table hard enough that it splinters.
I don’t recognize the sound coming out of me. Like grief and rage a
