"What—" Instantly, Alis draws her knees against her chest, her eyes wide with fear. "Is it him?" I rush at the door and swing it open, heart pumping, brows furrowed as I glance left and right. No one. Nothing. Then I look down at my feet and sigh. "It was only a fallen branch," I call back to Alis, kicking the rotten limb with my wet, socked foot. "Oh," she breathes, laughing a little to herself. I come back into the cabin, locking the door behind me, and my eyes fall upon the typewriter, still and somehow accusing. I wrote more of the play last night, unconsciously, lost to my lonely, drunken stupor. A few more scenes, I’m guessing, and the play will be complete. Done. Over. Will that mean my life with Catherine is truly over? Will she leave me? Should she leave me? Am I hurting her now, spending Christmas in her cabin with another woman? I shudder and nearly fall, the wave of grief and guilt is so overwhelming… I might drown in it. I’m failing, failing, failing everyone. Failing Catherine. Failing Alis.
