PROLOGUE -
To this day, he can't open a door without remembering. Part of him still expects to slip through to surprise her, to stand stock still, to become paralyzed with shock. Part of him still expects to see her in the arms of another, betrayal in progress as he watches in agonizing disbelief. Part of him still believes that tears will begin to pour down his face, that he will lose his voice and gasp in indignation. Part of him imagines that his sputtering will give way to shouts made hoarse by the tears. Part of him still assumes that she will leap away, whisper that it isn't like he thinks, tell him she loves only him, then slowly hunch her shoulders and turn away from the guilt and shame he brings. Part of him knows that a close friend will walk through that horrible portal to see what the commotion is, soon realizing what has happened. Part of him knows that her partner in betrayal will kiss her softly and slip past him with twinkling, smirking eyes. Part of him knows that he will send her away in order to save her from the fists that are nearly murderous. Part of him believes that he will always cry himself to sleep as he did that night.
That part of him is always wrong, but it rules his life. He can't trust. He can't be free. He can't look at her anymore. He can't stand to see her eyes and her smile, knowing that he had everything and lost it in the blink of an eye.
Most of all, he can't let on to any of these things. He must keep them hidden, locked away inside of himself. They are private things that are his and his alone. They are his feelings, which he can mold and shape into sorrow and hatred. They destroy him, but he will not let them go. What does he have, besides the sorrow, the hatred, and the grief that eat him alive at every turn?
Oh, yes. He has fame.
What a comfort.