sorry seems to be the hardest word

“One guess. Michael.”

I think I felt it before I heard it. We were, I thought, almost asleep. Several minutes had passed, and I'd almost talked myself into believing that I hadn’t asked the question. Part of me was fantasizing that he hadn’t even heard me say it. Part of me still is.

And then I was in the bathroom, throwing up, a regular occurrence these days, trying to decide: What was colder—the toilet I was leaning on or the way I just said that to him? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. By the time I decided that it was probably me and emerged from the bathroom, it didn’t matter anymore.

He was gone.