November 1999 - Princeton, NJ
Stacy glanced around 221B Baker Street, feeling nothing.
The apartment looked emptier than it had in five years. There were open spaces on the bookshelf, a painting removed from the wall, pictures taken from the mantel. The piano still sat in the corner, the medical texts and anatomical paintings sat untouched. What remained was unmistakably masculine. Unmistakably Greg.
Greg. He sat on the leather loveseat, his rounded back to her. He rested his elbows on his bent knees and his forehead in his hands. He was still using crutches, which lay at his feet. She could see the tendons in his neck, the thick cords that stood out when he was angry or in pain. Six months ago, the site would have worried her. Now, she struggled to care at all.
The six months she'd spent with Greg post-infarction had all but wiped out her humanity. That was why she had to leave.
Stacy loved Greg, she did. He was the one, and she was sure he always would be. But she could no longer subject herself to his hatred, resentment, or anger. It was no longer just hurting her, but was changing her: now, she hated him as much as he hated her; they resented each other equally.
Stacy pulled the door open and pulled her suitcase through the threshold. After one last glance, she shut the door to the apartment and left.