I don’t plan it.
That’s the truth I cling to later, when everything fractures into before and after. When people ask what warning signs I missed, what choices I made wrong. When hindsight sharpens into something cruel and precise.
It starts with something ordinary.
A quiet morning stretched thin by rain. Not dramatic rain. Just the steady, patient kind that darkens the pavement and makes the world feel temporarily smaller. Damian is in the shower, the steady hush of water bleeding through the bathroom door, punctuated by the occasional metallic clink as he reaches for soap or adjusts the tap. Familiar sounds. Safe ones.
I’m in the kitchen with a mug I’ve reheated twice already because I keep forgetting to drink it. The microwave beeps feel too loud in the stillness, so I shut it off ea
