But I’d lived with him for five years, and for five years, in this sterile apartment, we were all each other had. I sank onto the couch and willed myself to cry, to expel the pressure mounting in my chest. Once. I wanted that relief just once, but as always, I didn’t get it. And an eternity later, when the pressure became unbearable and my will to fight eroded to nothing, I simply curled up on the couch, squeezed my eyes shut against the pain, and pretended I was someone, somewhere else because that was the only thing I’d ever been able to do.
