Possessiveness isn’t love. I’m not even sure it qualifies as an emotion.

Don't worry he tells me tenderly. It doesn't matter who you've been, who you are, or who you become. I'm with you every step of the way.

We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his; they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.

You ever have that feeling? Like you’ve known someone your whole life but you don’t know them at all.

With my partner beside me, I fear nothing, not even death.

There’s a hollow where he used to be, and it echoes with self-imposed loss.

More than most, I know the pain of surviving.