Richard's mental state fell apart at an alarming pace.
He became convinced that I was always by his side.
While walking down the street, he would suddenly stop and talk to empty air.
"Giselle, does your leg hurt? I'll carry you. I can do it."
When he sat down to eat, he would set out a second bowl and a pair of chopsticks across from himself.
As he served the food, he would softly say,
"Sweet and sour ribs, your favorite. I stewed them until they were extra tender today. Give them a try."
I really was standing beside him.
Still, I only watched with cold indifference as he spiraled downward, watching him turn his life into a complete wreck.
I never answered him.
I did not even spare him a single extra glance.
On the first weekend after my funeral, Richard returned to the small ap
