They thought they had silenced me, but they didn’t know silence is where I build my strength.

I spent most of that night staring at the ceiling. The apartment was cold in places I hadn’t noticed before—like the floor under the dining table where my feet dangled, or the part of my chest that used to hold hope. But I didn’t cry. Not once.

The next morning, I woke up with swollen hands and stiff joints. Age is a funny thing. You get used to the aches, the creaks, the betrayals of your own body. What I hadn’t realized until now was how much more painful it was to be betrayed by your heart.

I made myself oatmeal—the kind Paul used to like as a kid—with raisins and cinnamon. I sat at the tiny round table in my kitchen and tried to eat, but it felt like swallowing regret. I glanced at the photo on my fridge: Paul at graduation, arms flung around Richard, both of them beaming. I’d been the one behind the camera—the one always behind.