We figure out what death means when we're born, practically, and we live our whole lives in some kind of weird denial about it.

I nod like I'm not at all unnerved by this new cold side to him. Not cruel like his father. Not warm like the husband who sought me out on quiet nights. Something in between. This Linden has never woven his fingers through mine, never chosen me from a line of weary Gathered girls, never said he loved me in a myriad of coloured lights. We are nothing to each other.

Eventually I realize that I am holding on to him just as tightly as he holds on to me. And here we are: two small dying things, as the world ends around us like falling autumn leaves.

I lost everyone I loved," I tell him. I wait for him to look at me, and then I add, "The day I met you.

Living in a place like this, she must have learned how to see all the monsters that can hide a person.

It taught that there are three versions of things: the one I see in my mind, and the one that carries onto the paper, and then what it ultimately becomes.

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