Dear Heather, I am writing this after leaving the airport. I’m sorry. I know I caused you pain, and I grieve about that. If your pain matches mine at this moment, then I am doubly sorry. I couldn’t follow you to New York, because I am not completely my own to give. I’m sick, Heather, and I’m not going to get well. I can’t—I won’t—shift that onto you, onto us. Believe me when I say I am not being melodramatic. I am being as hardheaded as I know how to be. Call it what you will—fate, a roll of the dice, a bad card. It came up against us this time. Our luck didn’t hold. But it was pretty to think
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