The darkness tightened her lungs as she set her foot on the first stair. Every breath grew more panicked, that she would never see him again, that closing that door on him had shut out his existence. She couldn’t do this, walking away from him, climbing and climbing up a dark stairwell by herself while she left him behind. She had to, though. Because he had done the same thing to her, left her behind while he disappeared up a dark climb where she could not follow. And she couldn’t be the person left behind again. She was as unable to let him back in as she was to send him away. She smacked on the timed lights at every landing, but the one flight lit above her seemed like some wimpy candle against a grief or a fear, and the darkness pursued her from below, as the lights went out behind her with each flight she cleared. In her apartment, at least, she could leave the lights on. Her home in expensive Paris was essentially a bed with a tiny amount of space on either side of it to move around.
