But the trouble is—my life the way it was had no Noah in it. If I’m being honest, it had nothing in it. Every day was exactly the same as the one before it, and where once that routine kept me safe, now it does nothing but stifle me. It steals my breath. I go to work and feel as though I’m walking into a prison. I come home and the sensation is the same. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. He lives three inches away from me, but crossing those three inches is out of the question. If I do it, he will only say more things that make my heart die in my chest. He’s so good at it—he could probably kill me with a couple of words. Sometimes I picture him lying awake at night, coming up with them. Sometimes I picture him doing something worse. I have dreams about him swinging from those beams in his attic, or falling from the roof in the middle of a rainstorm. And though I try to tell myself that saving him is not something I can do—or even should do—the urge is a burning fire in my chest.
