Real’ is a dirty word in this place.

Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.

Sometimes we don't know how afraid we are until we've reached a strange door and we don't know what will be on the other side.

I never wanted to live forever," she says. "I just wanted enough time.

Good night, sweetheart," he says. "Good bye, sweetheart," I say. And it's so casual, so innocent that he doesn't suspect a thing.

Linden just wants to protect her, is what I want to say. She's all he has. I left him. I'm at arms reach, but I've left him.

There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.