Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 11

I had a habit. Whenever I ate, watched a movie, or rode the bus, I always saved an empty seat next to me. I stubbornly believed that Cindy Newman would one day show up in my city and fill that seat.During the three years of our long-distance relationship, I held onto that empty seat through countless nights of high fever, through the despair of losing my mother. In the end, every last bit of hope inside me had run dry.Cindy gave her time, attention, privileges—even a bowl of soup—to someone else.She taught me that the empty seat wasn't waiting because she couldn't come. It was because she never cared to show up. By the time she finally did, there was no seat left for her.After returning to the country, Cindy bought the apartment in Southlake that I'd used to live in.She restored it exactly as it had been the day I left, even retrieving the pink toothbrush from the trash and placing it back beside the sink.Every night, she sat alone on the couch in an apartment furnished for