And this question, this simple, terrifying question about a non-existent illness, was just the opening move. The thing that would make him panic, make him run to a clinic imagining the worst, make him feel a fraction of the fear I’d lived with for eight days.
There was no illness. Hazel was perfectly healthy. But Milo didn’t need to know that.
Not for a few more hours.
Anyway, let me take you back to how this all started. To the moment I realized the man I’d loved for eleven years had become a complete stranger.
I met Milo Brennan on a Tuesday morning at a coffee shop in Manhattan when I was twenty-five years old. I had just started my first real job after graduate school, working at a nonprofit that helped refugees settle in New York. The work was overwhelming and meaningful in equal measure, and I was running on three hours of sleep and desperation for caffeine.
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