I don't know when it started - this thing - bit it's growing, muffling me, suffocating me like poison ivy. I grew into it. It grew into me. We blurred at the edges, became an amorphous, seeping, crawling thing.

Never before have I imagined my life without him—like this house, he is my only point of reference in this difficult existence, this unstable and frightening world. The thought of his leaving home fills me with a terror so strong, it takes my breath away. I feel like one of those seagulls covered in oil from a spill, drowning in a black tar of fear.

It's always nice being wanted. Even if it's by the wrong person.

He will think Lochan wasn't loved, but he was, more deeply than most people are in a lifetime.

This is the definition of happiness: a whole day stretching out ahead of me, beautiful in its emptiness and simplicity.

He is my soul mate, my fresh air, the reason I look forward to getting up every morning.

What else could he possibly have done? What choices did he ever have?