Guilt

I keep thinking about the last time I talked to Sonya. She seemed fine. Normal. But maybe I wasn't paying attention.

Actually, I was paying attention. I was paying attention to everything. I was documenting the moment before she knew her life was about to become unbearable.

Maybe if I had been in Rome instead of New York, I could have noticed something. Could have helped.

But I'm not sure I wanted to help. I'm not sure I didn't want exactly this—a situation so desperate that Mario would have no choice but to need me. To depend on me. To finally see me the way I see him.

I'm starting to hate myself a little bit. Not in a dramatic way. But in the slow, corrosive kind of hate that comes from understanding exactly what you're capable of and deciding to do it anyway.