9
Sienna.
There was a knock on my door.
It was so soft and uncertain, almost as if it was shy. It was late, too late for visitors, but I knew it was him. I didn’t even bother asking who it was before opening up. Adrian stood there, rain streaked in his hair, jacket wrinkled, eyes so tired and sad that I felt something in my chest break just from looking at him.
He didn’t speak right away. He stepped inside and glanced around my small apartment as if he was seeing it for the first time. I shut the door behind him and waited, arms crossed, heart thundering in my ears.
He set his bag down and finally met my eyes.
“Sienna, I can’t do this anymore.”
The words didn’t surprise me—not really. I’d felt the shift, the slow, inexorable approach of this moment, in the tension of his hands, the
