I married a stranger I met in a hospital waiting room so he wouldn’t die alone—after just one week of marriage, his lawyer handed me his backpack.

Laundromat.

Park bench.

Waiting room.

Chapel.

All these ordinary places.

All these unfinished stories.

“He stopped apologizing for crying.”

By morning, I had slept maybe an hour.

The backpack was still open.

The notebook still waited at the bottom.

This time, I opened it.

The first page contained only two sentences.

“People think loneliness is the absence of company.continue reading …