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And this question, this simple, terrifying question about a non-existent illness, was just the opening move. The thing that would make him panic, make him run to a clinic imagining the worst, make him feel a fraction of the fear I’d lived with for eight days.
There was no illness. Hazel was perfectly healthy. But Milo didn’t need to know that.
Anyway, let me take you back to how this all started. To the moment I realized the man I’d loved for eleven years had become a complete stranger.
I met Milo Brennan on a Tuesday morning at a coffee shop in Manhattan when I was twenty-five years old. I had just started my first real job after graduate school, working at a nonprofit that helped refugees settle in New York. The work was overwhelming and meaningful in equal measure, and I was running on three hours of sleep and desperation for caffeine.
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