He’s waiting for my answer, but I’m watching the images of the life we never got to have scroll across his features. The time we planned to spend in Charleston is trapped in his eyes. All the late nights studying with textbooks scattered across every spare inch of our dining room table caught between his brows. Conversations about our future—where he would do his residency, how I wanted to use my MBA, when we were going to get married and if we wanted to have kids—held in the curve of lips that asked for a future with another woman then, moments later, said he only loved me.
