“None of those things are your fault.” A tormented look flashes behind his eyes when he takes in the open wounds along my knuckles and palms. “I kept thinking you’d come back. And you did. But you never came to me. Not a single call. Not a text. Every single morning when I wake up, I feel sick to my stomach while I check my phone to see if you’ve died. And every night, I torture myself thinking that the next time I see you will be when you’re in a casket.”
