-Sebastian Lightwood:
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of pretending that everything was normal.
Fourteen days of waking up, getting dressed, going to university, coming back home, sitting in this same room, breathing the same air, acting like something vital hadn't been ripped out of our chests.
Nothing was getting better.
We were functioning. That was the only word for it. Functioning.
Every morning, I drove Elias to campus first. I always dropped him off in front of his building, waited until he actually walked inside before heading to mine. Classes didn't stop for heartbreak. Professors didn't care if your chest felt hollow. Graduation was coming, and deadlines were ruthless.
When my classes ended, I would head straight back to pick my husband up. He was always there, standing outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at nothing in particular. Sometimes he noticed me immediately. Sometimes I had to call his name twice.
He smiled when he saw me.
