“Please, Wyn.” I touch the muscles along his jaw. “I need to know we’re never going to hurt each other like this.” His eyes travel back and forth across my face. “I’m not going to stop fighting for you, Harriet.” My vision blurs behind tears. He pulls me in, holds me tight. “I’m not going to stop loving you.” It’s not the answer I asked for. It’s the one I desperately want. Years later, when it’s late and I can’t sleep for the phantom ache in my chest, I pull this memory out and turn it over. I think, We did the right thing. We let each other go. That too is a kind of comfort.
