Danny had the building’s thick wooden door unlocked and opened before I’d exited the yellow taxi. “Eliza, good evening,” he says with a knowing smile as I saunter past him, offering an uncharacteristically giggly hello in return. Even he seems thrown off by it and as I enter the elevator, I’m sure he’s watching me on the security cameras, making sure I get off on the correct floor and open the correct apartment. Drunk people are a disaster for doormen, I imagine.

Our hallway is dark when I enter, which is unusual for Graham. Some people have husbands who leave the kitchen cabinets open and the toilet seat up. I have a fiancé who can’t remember to turn off a light to save his goddamned life.

“Hello?” I call out, flicking the heels off my feet, unaware and indifferent as to where in the hallway they land. “Graham?” The first few barefoot steps are always uncomfortable, as your feet widen and return to their proper shape.

Silence.

I’d be surprised if he didn’t wait up for me. I offered him sex for God’s sake. He’s never fallen asleep if sex was on the table. It’s not like we didn’t fuck frequently—if the average couple has sex once a week, we are far beyond average. He is essentially always in the mood. It’s never too late or too early; he’s never too tired or too busy. I am the wet blanket in this relationship, pushing him away, or trading it for good behavior rendering me, essentially, a dog trainer.

I turn into the bedroom and the first thing I see is his suitcase: upright, zipped, and—after a slight kick to gauge its weight—packed. He actually did it. He packed for our wedding. Our suitcases are standing beside each other, like he and I would be in just a few days. As embarrassing as that is, I smile at the thought. It’s almost happening. We’re almost there. And then all this planning will be over.

Graham is in our bed, the navy weighted blanket outlining the shape of his cocooned body. He gave it to me for my birthday a few years ago, an attempt to soothe my lingering insomnia that his mother’s therapist once vaguely attributed to “childhood trauma” before handing me her card and offering her six-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour services if I wanted more information about what those traumas might be. As if I wasn’t acutely aware. I never called her, but Graham showed up with this blanket a few days later. “You’ve gone through so much, maybe this will help,” he said as he dragged the fifty-pound box into the bedroom. He loves my vulnerability. He loves trying to fix me. But you can’t fix a problem you don’t understand.