1
The Boston spring was too humid for May. Julian sat across from me at the kitchen table, the desk lamp throwing his shadow against the cracked plaster. He was working through equations I couldn't name.
"Julian," I said.
He didn't look up. The scratch of his pencil kept going.
"We should stop," I said. "This isn't working."
I pushed the paper toward him. I had spent the afternoon with a borrowed dictionary, copying words until my wrist ached, trying to find a legal way to say goodbye.
In the first life, I had died in a city I didn't know, looking for him. In the second, I had found him, only to see him on a porch with a woman who knew exactly how to talk to him. In the third, I tried to be quiet, to be the version of me he wouldn't hate, and it still wasn't enough.
I was done with that.
The pencil stopped. Julian stared at the paper. It was a separation agreement.
