I found part-time work at a bookstore.

The pay was small and the apartment was much smaller than the house I’d left, but the rooms felt lighter.

There were no secret calls behind locked doors. No one studied the grocery receipts as if food were a crime. No one was told that love had to be earned through obedience.

Some nights Elliot and I stayed up talking about the year we’d lost — the shelters, the work, meeting Nina — and I told him how often I’d called, how many messages I’d left, how deeply I regretted not standing beside him when he needed me.

I didn’t ask him to forgive me right away.

I had spent years believing an apology could erase the consequences of silence.