The permission had always been mine to grant, and I had spent five years asking them for it, on my knees, at my own table, in my own house, with my own money. We’ll let you. I read it one final time, and I felt the last of the old fear burn off like fog in the sun, and I understood that the only permission that had ever mattered was the one I had never once given myself: permission to stop.

At midnight Julian finally called.

“Where the hell are you?” he demanded.

“Your clothes aren’t in the room.” “I moved to a different suite.” “Over a little prank?” “It wasn’t a prank, Julian.

It was a confession.” He laughed, dry and dismissive, the laugh I had spent five years mistaking for confidence.

“Here you go with the speeches.

My family was teasing you.” “No.

They were playing with my dignity, and you filmed it for the group chat.” And then his voice went cold and sharp and horribly familiar.