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Our Little Secret: a gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist from bestselling author Darren O’Sullivan
Darren O’Sullivan
‘Immensely talented new author.’ John Marrs, author of The One and When You Disappeared‘Engrossing, compelling and twisty from the first page to the shocking ending. This book grabbed me and didn't let go.’ Michele Campbell author of It’s Always the Husband'Unique and utterly compelling. This twisty psychological thriller will chill you to the bones.' Gemma Metcalfe author of Trust Me‘A stellar and original concept, brilliantly executed. The final chapters had my heart in my throat! O’Sullivan is certainly one to watch.’ Phoebe Morgan, author of THE DOLL HOUSEA deserted train station: A man waits. A woman watches.Chris is ready to join his wife. He’s planned this moment for nearly a year. The date. The time. The train. But he hadn’t factored in Sarah.So when Sarah walks on to the platform and sees a man swaying at the edge she assumes he’s just had too much to drink. What she doesn’t expect is to stop a suicide.As Sarah becomes obsessed with discovering the secrets that Chris is clearly hiding, he becomes obsessed with stopping her, protecting her.But there are some secrets that are meant to stay buried…Pre-order Close Your Eyes… Darren’s thrilling second book, coming May 2018!Perfect for fans of Clare Mackintosh, BA Paris and Holly Seddon.Praise for Our Little Secret’Darren O’Sullivan keeps the reader on the edge of their seat in this dark, clever look at what drives people to the edge and how quickly a life can change.’ Phoebe Morgan author of The Doll House‘This is one of the best books I have ever read. It was nail-biting and had me on edge from start to finish… a must buy!’ Greta Halliday‘An absolutely phenomenal debut.’ Rebecca Pugh‘One of the best books of its genre.’Julia Beales‘The only thing unbelievable about this thriller is that it's the authors debut.’ Jennifer Kelly‘Gripping from the moment you start reading it.’ Emily Charlton‘Incredibly well-written debut.’ Susan Anne Burton‘One of the best novels I've read in a long time.’ Paul Lane


A deserted train station: A man waits. A woman watches.
Chris is ready to join his wife. He’s planned this moment for nearly a year. The date. The time. The train. But he hadn’t factored in Sarah.
So when Sarah walks onto the platform and sees a man swaying at the edge she assumes he’s had too much to drink. What she doesn’t expect is to stop a suicide.
As Sarah becomes obsessed with discovering the secrets that Chris is clearly hiding, he becomes obsessed with stopping her.
But there are some secrets that are meant to stay buried…
Perfect for fans of Clare Mackintosh and Holly Seddon.


Contents
Cover (#u2777c073-e571-504b-85bc-55ea0c41e950)
Blurb (#ufa008ed0-8d9a-58ef-908d-147c6cb94ec9)
Title Page (#u341539db-7985-5a43-8a6a-4ed9d67f8711)
Author Bio (#u864d5a86-dc52-5abb-a78a-8b93a1f635d8)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_dcf8eeb6-7175-57e2-abbc-f0d0d4cc97a2)
Dedication (#u3e91a9be-3a7d-5153-9cc0-adccbf66e2e0)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_d936342d-3279-5f5b-ba00-f36ffdf0077d)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_a5b937ff-a451-5b3d-b91b-e45d810edf89)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_85f72a65-9ab7-5ee2-9fb1-e0d438827859)
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Copyright
DARREN O’SULLIVAN lives and works in Peterborough as a theatre director, writer and actor. He is also the author of a children’s book The Sleep Taker.
Our Little Secret is his first thriller.
You can find Darren at: Facebook: www.facebook.com/darrenosullivanauthor (http://www.facebook.com/darrenosullivanauthor). Twitter: @darrensully (https://twitter.com/darrensully)
Acknowledgments (#ulink_e17767de-7b2c-52d4-bf3b-1b829f47695e)
There are so many people I would like to thank for helping me bring this novel to life but none more so than my editor Hannah Smith and the team at HQ for seeing the potential, having faith and guiding me through the journey in shaping Our Little Secret.
A special thank you also needs to go to the wonderful author and mentor Sarah May who I am lucky to know through the Faber Academy. Without her wisdom, passion, and support, I would not be the writer I am today. I must also thank the entire group of 2015-16 Faber Academy: Aysha, Bryony, Carly, Jean, Jen, Oz, Rob, Rosie, Sarah, Simone, Will, Yair and Zaz. Thank you for listening to the many readings of early versions and giving honest feedback. We had a wonderful six months together guys. I would also like to thank Nicci Cloke and Richard Skinner at the academy for helping to answer the many questions I had in developing this novel.
To Richard and Diane Card, thank you for reading early versions and giving feedback, and to Jacqui Howchin and Jonathan Austin, thank you for taking the time to pick apart the opening ready for submissions.
Mum and Dad, for, well, being Mum and Dad. As always you guys rock!
Hayley Chilvers, thank you for being a part of this since the early days of the first few chapters and being an ear for when doubt dances around me. Darren Maddison for being the rock who pops up when it’s most needed and John Ormandy, for helping me see that dreams can work with a lot of work.
The long nights at my computer and constant discussions about characters that took over my life were tough, so finally, to Helen, thank you for your understanding and patience.
For Ben, who shows me that anything is possible.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_04790c9d-01d5-5458-991e-25fec4d4e6d9)
5th May 2016
The first final day
10.39 p.m. – March train station, England
Eight minutes.

Chris looked up at the analogue dials of the train station clock, its ticking unperturbed by what was about to happen. It read ten thirty-nine. He stood and watched the seconds pass by slowly. Eight minutes, that was all he had to wait. Looking around the station he noted how dilapidated it was. The benches that were once sky blue were now covered with an assortment of profanities – as were the walls behind them. Pictures of male genitals and insults to people’s mothers were lit by a dull orange light in the roof of the old station and the flickering of a half-empty vending machine.
The old Chris might have had an opinion about it. Not now. Not anymore. Instead, reading the walls and the bench just made him feel more tired, more ready.
The station was the kind of place that had damp autumnal leaves even in the middle of summer. The kind of place the wind always fiercely travelled. He listened as it howled and moaned its way through the entrance and past him, stirring empty crisp packets and bottles of beer that had overflowed from the bins.
Letting out a sigh, he could see his breath hitting the air like cigarette smoke. Although it was May, the weather was unseasonably cold, barely six degrees. He hadn’t noticed how cold until now. He hadn’t noticed much lately, besides time. It was his only constant.
Chris then observed, in the same way a person might observe through a window, that his shirt was wet. It was raining and, now more aware of his surroundings, he realized the wind was giving him a chill.
He had been painfully passing the time walking through the quiet streets of March, a small fenland town thirty-two miles north of Cambridge, for an hour before arriving here. A town that was tired and had been left behind, full of charity shops and bargain outlets that displayed items for a pound or less. The shop signs that hung above paint-stripped doors were crude and cheap, almost shouting their names at him as he passed by. He’d noticed those inconsequential things but not the fact it was cold and he was wet. He briefly wondered why before shaking off the thought. He had to keep his focus now more than ever.
He looked again at the clock, it still read ten thirty-nine, and he still had eight minutes. Just eight small minutes.
Then he would be dead.
Chris had chosen the location perfectly. At this time of night there were no passenger trains. The next one not for thirty minutes after the one that he had dreamt of and longed for. He had done his homework. In the months before there had never been another person on the platform on a Thursday night. Research that began after his grief and shock had turned into numbness. As soon as he had made the decision to end his life, he knew it could only be in one place. The one place that changed everything.
It was on this platform Chris had known he was in love.
The first time he stood in this spot he had to fight the urge to do it then and there. But it was the middle of the afternoon, and there were several people waiting to travel. Each and every one of them would see him die. Something he couldn’t live with. He knew it would have to be at night.
Every Thursday he went back to the platform to find the opportune moment. Then one night, a distant rumbling came over the track and Chris knew this train was different. As it passed, he counted the carriages. There were forty-two. He counted them each week. Sometimes there were more, sometimes less. But they were always in the dozens and always at the same time: 10.47.
He had found a solution.
Researching the company, London Concrete, Chris knew it would be passing through on the date he needed. It was perfect. Only God would witness this but the God Chris grew up to know didn’t exist anymore. There would be no witnesses; there would be no one hurt.
His memory tried to take him back to that night where Chris stood eye to eye with a monster as Julia lay dead at his feet. Before it could take hold, he grasped at a glimmer of something else. He closed his eyes, fighting to hold onto the image. He wasn’t ready for the other one. Not yet.
The memory that he desperately grabbed hold of was the moment when he had first laid eyes on her.
It was five years earlier, and he was with Steve, his best mate, who had dragged him out for a few drinks despite his protests. He remembered how that night had begun. Steve didn’t call or text, but turned up unannounced at Chris’s front door, leaving him no choice but to go out. A taxi sat waiting, engine running as Chris threw on an old T-shirt and jeans – the only things he could find clean, cursing Steve as he did. For a moment Chris felt like he was back there.
‘Come on, mate!’
‘I’m coming, hold on.’
‘Bloody hell, they’ll be calling last orders by the time you get your arse into gear.’
‘Well then ring me to say we’re going out before you turn up.’
‘No chance, you would have said no.’
He was right. He was always right.
It had only taken the five-minute taxi journey into the city centre for Chris to forgive Steve’s intrusion. An hour later Chris was glad that his mate had turned up; he hadn’t realized how much he needed to unwind. The drinks were flowing and he hated to admit it to Steve, but he was having the best evening he’d had in a long time.
Propping up the bar in their favoured place, unoriginally called The Corner Lounge due to its geographical location, Chris sipped his drink while people-watching as Steve chatted to one of the barmen. Chris couldn’t help but notice the similarity of everyone. How people all have their go-to outfits for a night on the town in order to stand out, only to blur together. The men all wore the classic jeans and jacket combo and the women all looked glamorous, perhaps too glamorous for a small bar in a small city. Looking down at his fraying jeans and old T-shirt he couldn’t help but smile wryly to himself.
The walls of The Corner Lounge were adorned with portraits of unknown people on top of wallpaper designed to make the modern space feel old and classy. Soft house music played in an undertone to the menagerie of conversations and laugher. He had to give the place its due: it had atmosphere.
Chris’s attempts to keep up with Steve’s drinking pace had left him a little blurry-eyed and he could hear Steve’s conversation with the barman about how well life was treating him. It left him feeling a little envious. He soon shook it off, ignoring the green-eyed monster. It was probably just the lager.
As Steve continued to talk about himself and Kristy, his girlfriend, getting married one day soon, Chris scanned the room once more. It was then he first caught a glimpse of her through the crowd. She was sharing a joke with a friend, throwing her head back as she laughed, giving everyone who might be looking at her a clear view of her perfect smile. That was the first thing he noticed: she laughed without a care in the world. At some point Steve had stopped talking to the barman and was focusing his attention back on Chris.
‘She’s pretty.’
‘Who?’
‘Come on, don’t pretend you’re not staring at the woman in the green dress.’
‘I wasn’t! I mean, she just caught my eye, that’s all.’
‘Of course she did. She’s lovely. Probably the type of lady who eats a lot of avocado. Well … go on, go say hello.’
Chris laughed at the idea of this. He had never found it easy to talk to women, especially women who were as beautiful as she was. He looked at Steve and smiled. It was a nice idea, but they both knew he wasn’t confident enough to ever do it.
Chris hadn’t had many love affairs in his adult life, but in every single one of them it had been the woman who had broken the ice and introduced herself first. And as much as he wanted it, Chris wasn’t ready for this to change.
‘Come on, mate.’
‘Wait, what are you doing?’
‘If it were up to you you’d never meet anyone. We’re going to go say hi.’
‘Steve!’
‘Fine, you stay here; I’m off to mingle.’
Steve walked away, bopping along to the music, which made Chris realize no one else was. It was something he really liked about his friend: he had such contagious confidence that wasn’t intimidating or something that people mocked. Watching him solo dance towards the beautiful woman, Chris drained his glass, cringing at himself as he did – he was that guy who knocked back a drink to fuel some Dutch courage before talking to a girl.
Turning to the bar he waved at the barman to order two more beers, his ears burning and his heart rate elevated at what might or might not be happening behind him. He figured that Steve’s advances on his behalf would be shut down and he would turn to see him returning, shoulders shrugging as if to say ‘oh well’. A sheepish smile on his face.
Paying for his drinks, he took another sip followed by a deep breath and turned back to face the room in time to see Steve rather unsubtly pointing in his direction, gesturing for him to come over. The beautiful woman was looking at him, making eye contact, and Chris had no choice now but to walk over and introduce himself.
He made his way through the crowd, trying his best not to interrupt the conversations of strangers he walked into, cursing and thanking his mate in equal measure. He remembered how he had awkwardly offered his hand as a way of introducing himself. At the same time, she went in for a kiss on the cheek, missing and landing near his ear, causing him to accidentally touch her on her side, not firmly, but enough for them both to know.
He would never forget that moment, yet he never spoke of it with her.
Steve stayed long enough to ensure the conversation was flowing smoothly before he splintered off to talk, rather loudly, to her friend about his future plans. It left Chris aware that it was just him and this beautiful woman getting to know each other. He hoped his nerves wouldn’t show though he could feel his face was still burning.
As they talked he struggled to understand how she could be so beautiful, so smart, so funny and after discreetly glancing down at her hand, so unmarried. He remembered how her soft green eyes never left the smoky grey of his as they spoke, and that he didn’t learn her name until embarrassingly late into their conversation because he was so nervous, he hadn’t asked.
Her name was Julia.
In that first meeting he learnt that she was a journalist for a local paper and had been for seven years, starting straight out of university. He learnt that she loved her job, and that being a writer was something she had wanted to do ever since she started her first diary as a child. He asked her if she wanted to write other things, a novel or perhaps something for TV. She said she liked where she was. Telling people’s stories and finding the hidden truth was enough. She told him that she truly believed she could make a difference. It wasn’t her being naive, just faithful.
He told her about his work. He remembered she was baffled as to what he did but asked if he loved it. He did, and she said that was all that mattered.
As the night drew on the crowds left, leaving the quieter murmurs of couples enjoying each other’s company, and as Chris ordered Julia and himself another drink he began to think beyond the moment. He wondered if he would see her again. He wanted to ask her for her number but couldn’t find the courage despite her giving all the signs of enjoying his company. Steve once again intervened and rather unsubtly asked how they were going to stay in touch. She immediately asked for Chris’s phone and tapped her number straight into it.
‘So you don’t lose it and forget me,’ she said.
He wondered if that was remotely possible.
He remembered how the rain felt warm on the back of his neck as he stole a kiss outside the bar before she got into a taxi. And how he laughed into his pillow like a child might on Christmas Eve that night, because he knew in that moment what he still knew now. She was the one.
He remembered being excited at the idea of seeing her again.
He remembered, in that moment, meeting her, he felt more alive.
And then jolting back to the present he remembered she was gone, strangled as he helplessly watched, unable to save her.
Opening his eyes, he was back on the cold platform. He looked at the clock.
Ten forty.
Seven minutes.

Chris took his wallet from his back pocket and opened it. A picture of his wife looked back. Carefully he took it out and held it in his hands and for a moment time seemed to matter less. It was from their honeymoon nearly two years ago now. Her skin was sun-kissed. Her smile was as wide and as carefree as the day they met. He remembered the beach they were lying on as he took it. Quiet and peaceful, a secret no one else knew of. And they just lay there, her head nestled in the gap between his shoulder and chest as he stroked her hair.
He pictured how they had spent day after day like it. Sleeping and talking and kissing without anyone to interrupt them. He told her stories of his father and she told him about her dreams and plans for the future.
He remembered how excited he felt as they discussed buying a bigger home and having a little family, both fantasizing about a daughter they would call Sophie, with her eyes and his smile. Their fantasy baby would crinkle her forehead when concentrating, and gently rub the bridge of her nose when falling asleep, just like Julia did.
He remembered how she told him he would make a brilliant daddy and how his heart felt full because of it. He thought about the night they stumbled across a cave bar in the side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Its locals rough around the edges with their dirty fingernails, stained T-shirts, and thick beards. But welcomed the non-Spanish-speaking couple with a kiss on each cheek. He thought of how she got drunk and he played guitar. He remembered feeling like those were the best weeks of his life.
It was his favourite picture of her. He could feel the Mediterranean sun every time he looked at it. Its warmth reaching his soul through that smile. But it felt cold in his hands, her smile not as bright. It told him what he already knew. He had let her down. There would be no bigger home, no little family, for he couldn’t save her from dying. He couldn’t stop her killer, even though every atom in his being was desperate to do just that.
He wanted to say something, anything. There were under seven minutes left and he desperately wanted to talk about how he felt. It didn’t matter that no one would hear it but the slowly moving rain cloud; he needed to voice them. Chris had always struggled to tell her his thoughts. The kind that are frightening for people to reveal, ones that once said couldn’t be unsaid. He wanted to share his deepest feelings about how when she looked at him it felt like the whole world stopped moving. As if all of the energy that had ever been created was holding its breath and that when she kissed him he felt lost within it.
He wanted to say that every mistake he had made, all of the times he had failed, were justified because each one brought her closer to him and had shaped him into the man who she would love. He wanted to say that nothing else mattered besides her. He wanted to tell her he would gladly trade places with her and would be happy to have died knowing she could live. But he couldn’t find the words. And she couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t turn back time.
Six minutes.

Closing her smile into the palm of his hand, he placed his wallet on the bench behind him. He had no need for it now. He thought it might be more use to someone else. He left it open, showing a £20 note inside. Stepping back he thought of the old expression his father used to say about being generous.
‘It is only money; can’t take it with you,’ he often said to Chris, even when he was too young to understand what it meant.
Even now, after seeing him fall ill and succumb to disease, he always remembered his father as he was when Chris was a young boy. The way his greying beard felt as he came in to kiss Chris goodnight, an air of tobacco wafting across him whilst he pretended to sleep and the way his father told stories about his mother. How they had met, when they had married.
She too had succumbed, although at no age when a person should, an age that robbed him of his ability to remember her beyond the images his father gave him. Then he remembered a moment he had long forgotten. One where his father took him outside into the garden on a cold, clear night.
‘Chris, do you know why we are outside?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to show you where Mummy went.’
‘Where?’
‘Look up.’
‘I can’t see anything; it’s too dark.’
‘Give it a moment.’
After a few seconds the stars began to show themselves and as he looked, the more he could see. There were thousands. He had never seen so many stars.
‘Wow.’
‘Sometimes, Chris, you have to look into darkness before you can see the beauty behind it.’
Chris didn’t know what his father meant by that. But he thought he said it more for himself than for him.
He remembered for many minutes he and his father just lay there, close to each other, looking at the wonder of the sky. It made him feel so small, but so safe.
‘Chris, I’m sorry that you don’t remember your mummy.’
‘Me too.’
‘Chris, do you know where people go when they die?’
‘Heaven.’
‘That’s right, and do you know what heaven looks like?’
‘Clouds?’
Chris’s father laughed quietly. ‘Yes, clouds, but also stars.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Up there are billions of stars. More than you or I could ever count. Each star is a person who has died and they go into the night sky to watch over us as we sleep. Like your mummy is doing now. You see, darling, we haven’t really lost her at all.’
Chris gasped and looked more intently at the sky, trying to find a trace of his mother. ‘Is Mummy watching us now?’
‘Yes. Chris, if you ever feel sad or alone always remember your mummy is up there, twinkling just for you and me.’
Shaking off the memory, he questioned, knowing what he did now, how his father stayed so strong. He hadn’t thought of that night in a very long time and looking to the sky he wondered if there was a star next to his mother’s, maybe two: his father’s and his wife’s. All he saw were dark clouds looking back. It was right that they were hidden.
Chris wondered what his father would say to him now. Would he tell him to be braver than he was and allow himself to heal? Would he tell him to do the right thing and reach out to someone who could help and then find a way to be happy once more? Not that it mattered – he didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in anything.
For a moment, he wondered if things would have been different if his father was still alive, then he forced himself to focus and taking the note from his trouser pocket that he had carefully worded about the circumstances of his death, he looked for somewhere to place it. Somewhere he knew it would be found to explain why he had chosen to take his own life.
Settling for under the decaying bench with his wallet, he used the stone that he had carried on him for nearly a year as a weight to stop it blowing away in the wind. That stone had been on him every day since she had died and as soon as it was removed from his pocket he felt vulnerable. He took one last look at its blackness that had been polished by the waves over endless time. He placed the stone on top of the folded note as far back under the bench as he could reach and stepped back towards the platform edge. Then, he looked back to the clock.
Five minutes.

Chris took off his shoes, the damp cold floor strangely soothing on his bare feet. It helped him stay in the moment. He did it to feel closer to her. Julia hated wearing shoes, and when Chris first asked why, she told him that feet were designed to feel the world beneath them. To be connected.
She was barefoot the night she was killed.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_c51bc8b9-cf43-531b-be7a-5260b91d61f0)
25 minutes before
10.17 p.m. – The Bastard John’s bedroom, Lynn Street, March, England

It was dark in his bedroom and it smelt of sex, our sex, but I could just see enough to look at the deep-sleeping shape of the man who had once filled my heart with love. My naked body warm under his covers. His jet-black hair limp across his face. Looking at him I couldn’t believe that this man had once made me believe anything was possible. But as he mumbled something in his sleep, it felt like I was looking at somebody else.
I remembered how I used to stare at him, admiring how beautiful he was. There was no beauty in him anymore, just the shape of a person who mirrored my anger and shame. This man had stolen years of my life. I felt betrayed.
Foolishly I thought that he’d text me because the day before was my birthday. Special occasions had a funny impact on people, making them nostalgic and longing. I thought that was what had happened to John. But it was clear as soon as I arrived that he hadn’t remembered. That was okay. He was never good with remembering dates.
I thought that we were going to address his infidelity and I was expecting myself to forgive him and rekindle our love. I’d imagined he would sit me down on the bed, holding my hands. Candlelight throwing shadows across the walls as he told me how he regretted what had happened and that he loved me. I half dreamed he would then get on one knee and say he needed to spend the rest of his life righting his wrongs. And that he understood the pain that he had caused. He had been unfaithful to me for over a year – we both knew it; we also knew it would take nothing short of a miracle for us to recover, but I let myself dream we could.
Looking at him asleep, I couldn’t see how I’d let myself be so stupid for so long. Sex with him used to be about giving over fully, spirit and soul in perfect embrace, but it was clear I was just being used.
The night had started with us watching an old film. We were curled up on the sofa under a blanket as the opening credits rolled. I felt safe, I felt secure, and I felt it could be like it once was. I allowed myself to think that maybe, just maybe, things had changed. He had changed.
Now I know he had used the familiarity of an old film to get what he wanted. It had just been about sex, about primal need, and that sickened me. Still, at least he remembered I liked the old black and whites – surely that was something?
I wondered where it had gone so wrong and why we couldn’t we have a life more like those old movies? The ones where people fell in love. The ones where there would be some problem facing that love, whether it was someone else trying to block it or a class division, but love would always win. People didn’t lie in the black and white movies. They didn’t cheat either.
Thinking about them made me feel sad for their struggles and angry I was making my issues with John seem like the be-all and end-all.
Squeezing myself into my tight jeans, the ones that hugged my figure and made me feel attractive at the beginning of the evening and repulsive at the end, I searched for the shoes I had kicked off as things heated up. Quietly swearing to myself when I realized one was on the floor, painfully close to the bed. Holding my breath, I crouched to pick it up, his deep breathing suggesting it didn’t matter if I was there or not.
Taking one final look at his beautiful body, I knew there was no going back. Checking my train timetable app to see the next train home was just before midnight I knew I had a long wait, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stay any longer. Putting on my cardigan and wrapping my scarf around my neck I walked towards the door, wanting to, but not daring to look back.
I tried to keep my head held high, as if it would give me a little more dignity. Wondering how I could feel dignified sneaking out of an ex’s house in the middle of the night, and grabbing my bag I left, closing the heavy door behind me. Taking with me my shame and the tattered remains of our relationship in one quiet, unceremonious moment.

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