The light was coming in the way it did in the late afternoon, the specific Verenza light that she had never loved the way she was supposed to love it, the light of a city that had always felt like someone else's story that she had wandered into through the wrong entrance.
The furniture was to Leo's taste. The art on the walls was Leo's choice.
Even the particular plants on the windowsill, the ones that had survived her inconsistent attention because they were the kind that didn't require much, had been selected by a man who had been selecting things to make an impression rather than a home.
She had been living inside Leo's impression of a life. And she had been stupid enough or lonely enough, which was perhaps the same thing, not to notice until a courtroom made it undeniable.
He never loved you.
