The forty-seven journals stayed in the closet. But six months later, Elena started a new one. On the first page, she wrote:

“I’m not an addict,” he said. “I’m a journalist. I only write about things that are already over.”

“Put that in your journal.”

He pulled her onto his lap. “The part where I was scared of you.”

October 3. 9:16 AM. I am loved. I am not annotating this. I am just saying it.