meant to him. “How did you live after losing Rosemary?” I’d always thought it was beautiful, his grief. A living reminder of a love lost too soon. To my surprise, he doesn’t hang up or tell me to fuck off. Instead, he sighs. The sound of a lighter flicking makes its way through the speaker. “I didn’t.” I scoff, “So, you’re dead?” “You don’t know?” Once again, I can hear the smirk. In my mind, I can see only his lips, tilted up in the corners. “They say I’m dead on the inside.” “They call me cursed. I wonder which is worse?”
