Memories from war were crippling me, and I felt that nothing but drugs could keep me afloat. I was already in too deep. If Vincent knew I had a problem, he’d fire me—which he did that night Hook opened. If you knew about my issue, I thought you’d run—which you did after I completely fucked up. I thought the drugs would balance me. But all they did was screw me up even worse. I deserved to lose you and my job.

After our huge fight in your hotel room, Vincent found me with a gun in my mouth. I was in the middle of the mountainside with nothing left to lose. He got me to a hospital, although I have to admit that I’m not sure how he got me there. I must have blocked it all out. Rock bottom is what they call it. But I call it get help or die.

After switching from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, I’ve finally found a doctor who seems to understand me.

Dr. Sullivan was a Marine, and that got my attention. Unlike these other doctors who were sitting in medical school, studying and living in freedom, while I was sacrificing my time and my life. Sully made the same sacrifices. He understands the world I lived in. The first time we met, it was like he knew exactly what I was going through. When he explained that, sometimes, there wasn’t even a trigger but that my emotions would go haywire with random bursts of irritability and anger, I was shocked. Not because he was wrong, but because he was right. He told me to go get an MRI, and for once, I actually listened. I’m waiting now on the results.

I hope you’re well. It’s hard for me to sleep, knowing what I put you through. Memories of war are hell, but losing you has been its own form of torture. I’m so sorry for what I did.

Slade

I read the e-mail over again. And then again. I’ve replayed our ending a thousand times in my head. This past month, I’ve fantasized about him returning to me. His huge, heavy body on top of mine in the night. Tracing the bone frog tattoo on his damp chest, sweaty from sex. His lips groaning against mine. Slade saving me and … loving me. Sitting on the back of his bike when he takes me to the mountains. Cooking dinner. Laughing. I imagined all the things I wish we’d had time for, like watching a movie on his couch. More meals together.

Tears fill my eyes. Because I don’t think any of that will ever happen. I was furious at his disappearance, but it wasn’t his fault. He’s … sick.

Written in his own plain language is the truth. Slade is an addict who tried to kill himself. I’m in love with a man who’s broken. Beyond repair maybe.

My heart feels like it’s cracking in my chest, vibrating from the realization. I want to write back and tell him … tell him how I feel, too. Tell him that I’ll be there for him through it all. But I won’t because I can’t sacrifice myself for him. I’ve bled.