I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.

Suicide. A sideways word, a word that people whisper and mutter and cough: a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms or murmured behind closed doors. It was only in dreams that I heard the word shouted, screamed.

Feelings aren't forever. Time waits for no one, but progress waits for man to enact it.

You must hurt, or be hurt.

He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.

I start to back away before I do something wildly inappropriate, like jump on top of him.

"Everyone is asleep. They've all been asleep for years. You seemed... awake." Alex is whispering now. He closes his eyes, opens them again. "I'm tired of sleeping."