“No,” I said, and I meant it.

“I feel whole.” Because free was never quite the word.

Free is what you are when a door opens; whole is what you are when you have walked back through the wreckage of your own life and picked up every scattered piece and found, to your surprise, that they still make something, and that the something is stronger at the joins.

I did not forgive Roman, and I want to be honest about that, because there is a version of this story that ends in some serene forgiveness and it would be a lie.