I jumped up, ran out of the room, and burst into her office. She was sitting at her desk, wearing faded jeans and a heather-gray T-shirt, her hair tied back in a long, thick braid. She turned to face me. “Oh, hey!” she said casually, ignoring my dramatic entrance.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” she said. She pulled a chair out from the empty desk behind her. As I sat down, I stole a glance at the postcards taped beside her bookshelves. There was one of a cat doing yoga, another of her standing beside a horse, a kid on each side. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Sunday’s my last day,” I told her, hurt that she didn’t already know. “And I’m just, sad, because—” I covered my face with my hands. I couldn’t stand for her to see me cry again. “I like having you in my life.”

She touched the top of my head, which made me shiver. “Hold on,” she said, “do you think that after you leave, I’ll no longer be in your life?”

I sniffled. “Isn’t that how it works?”

“Well, maybe at other treatment centers,” she said, “but I like to keep in touch with my clients.”

And just like that, my stash of hope was replenished. I didn’t have to lose her. I started to breathe normally again. “Do you use Facebook?” she asked, and I nodded. She then took out a pad of Post-its. “Here’s how to find me,” she said, writing out her full name, the letters bubbly and distinct. She peeled off the note and handed it to me. “I’m leaving the ball in your court.”

•

On my last Sunday in group, I read aloud my goodbye letter to love addiction. “What will I find to replace you?” I asked rhetorically. “Hopefully the real thing. And if I don’t let you go, there won’t be any room for that.” Molly and Alex both asked for a copy of my letter, and I couldn’t help but feel flattered. I gave the farewell speech that I’d been eager to deliver ever since I’d decided to incorporate the Proust quote from the poster in the basement. “It’s true,” I preached to the group from the front of the room, “the real voyage of discovery is about having new eyes. And I leave here today with a brand-new pair.”

They flocked to my outstretched arms in the form of hugs and applause. “You set the bar for recovery,” Richard told me. “Call anytime, we’re always here for you.” He patted me on the back as I leaned into the crook of his elbow.