Solid
It's getting better.
Each day, it becomes a little easier to think about the dreams and goals that turned to roadkill, about a future that he counted on until its absence left him with nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
Another day, another little bit better.
But that doesn't mean there aren't still bad days, when he watches her leave out of the corner of his eye without a word and then rages at the unfairness of the world like a child, or that they don't come more often than the good days.
And when they come, he wonders how he ever thought he had good days.
But sometimes things make sense at night the way they wouldn't in the day. Or maybe it's the other way around.
Doesn't matter.
Because when he wakes up from a nightmare of having actually nothing instead of almost nothing, of pain and fire and loneliness, already fading into dim, terrifying shapes behind his eyelids, to find soft, sleep-warmed arms winding around him, blissfully reassuring and comfortingly real, he remembers.
He might be able to be pretty happy with his life after all, might give up his obsession with revenge for good, just as long as she stays put.