Noah.
That morning I didn’t think things could get any worse. I rushed down the stairs biting back tears because there was this flicker of hope that he’d be there, in the cottage waiting for me to barge in and realize that he had just pulled the world’s worst fucking joke on me.
But the moment I set foot in that cottage, all hope died instantly. I didn’t have to go further in than the living room to know that he was no longer there.
His smell, his presence, the white-hot passion we shared, which always seemed to seep through the fucking walls...it was gone. Like it was never there in the first place.
The last thing I remembered was collapsing to the floor as sobs tore from my lungs. It hurt. It ached. It felt like someone had ripped my heart from my chest and turned it inside out so it could bleed out faster. Time no longer existed. It was only pain. This soul-crushing, mind-numbing pain that shackled me.
Silas found me that day crying on the floor...just like he did the day our mother died–which was why I understood the anger he harbored toward Noah.
He was once again left to pick up the pieces.