Five days.

That’s how long it takes to dismantle a life.

Five days of moving from one hotel room to another like a ghost; silent, deliberate and detached. I didn't want to stay in the villa for every corner of the house whispered Roman’s name, every wall held his laughter, and every surface still smelled faintly of his cologne no matter how much I cleaned.

I force myself not to pause. I can’t afford to linger on what was. I can’t afford to crumble again.

Each morning, I wake up before ...