The word “music” comes from the Muses, goddesses of the arts in Greek mythology.

I never said it before, because I thought it was tacky, but you’re my goddess (especially your ass).—Célian

John Lennon started his music career as a choir boy.

I never said it before, because it terrified me to admit it, but you’re my church (although I plan to be inside you way more than just on Sundays).—Célian

Your heart mimics the beat of the music you’re listening to.

I didn’t know I even had one before you came along, and now I do, and it hurts like a motherfucker (thanks for that).—Célian

I stole your iPod before you stole my wallet. It was tucked inside my jacket before I even removed your panties. I wanted to know what you were listening to. (And I was sorely disappointed there were no Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake songs in sight, because it made not falling for you so much fucking harder.)—Célian

I tried to tell myself I broke up with Lily because I was better than my father. Bullshit. I broke up with her because I couldn’t not be with you (and I’ve spent a respectable amount of time denying that shit to myself).—Célian

The day I went to the Davises, I wanted you to find out. I wanted you to show me your ugly side. I wanted you to be ugly, for once in your life, so I could shake you off. (You weren’t ugly that day. I was.)—Célian

The last one, which was actually many Post-it notes stuck together, had been tucked inside my drawer on Friday, and it read:

I’m in love with you, and I might not be able to tell you that in person, because you clearly don’t want to hear it, and because I’ll be gone soon. But I am, and I fucking hate it. Don’t think for one minute I wanted to fall in love with you, Jude. But that makes my love for you so much stronger. So next time you wrongly assume you’re the only person hurting in this, just remember the first rule of journalism. There are two sides to every story. (And if you’re at all open to hearing mine, this is probably my last chance.)—Célian

The lock rattled in the door to the apartment. I quickly wiped the tears from my face, but there was very little point in doing that, I realized. My clothes were soaked with them. So were the Post-it notes. I gulped in a breath and turned around. Dad walked in wearing a Yankees cap and waving a baseball in his hand.

“Guess what your old man caught?” His grin collapsed the minute he saw me sitting on the floor, surrounded by a sea of yellow papers. He rushed to my side.

“Is everything okay, JoJo?”

I stood up, not wanting to waste another minute.

“Where were you?”

“The Yankees game. Célian thought it’d be a nice way to say goodbye. Then we went for hot dogs. I figured I’d be home before you got back.”

“I cut my library time short. Where’s Célian?” I sniffed.

“Are you okay?” he asked again, rubbing my back.

Was I? A part of me was. A part of me was more than okay, knowing I was about to help a man who deserved my help more than anyone I knew, after everything he’d given me and my dad. Another part of me was gutted and torn—to give him a chance and to risk the full demolition of my heart or try to move on?

“I’m fine, Dad. Where’s Célian?”

“He said he had to get something from the office…”

Of course.

I was out the door before I had the chance to hear what it was.

The cardboard boxes remained untouched and empty in the corner of my office. All I really needed to take was my laptop.

I rarely got attached to people, let alone possessions.

I had no pictures of my family and no bullshit funny mugs on my desk. Every award I’d received had been thrown in the trash the night it was given to me—I didn’t make the news to get a pat on the back; I made the news because I wanted to change lives, and perspective, and the world, and to prove I was deserving of all I had been given. The only thing I had gotten attached to on this floor would like to see me castrated by a butcher, so there was really no need to prolong my departure. I’d insisted on not having a goodbye party, explaining there was nothing happy about my exit. I wasn’t moving on to bigger, better things after a mutual understanding with the management. I was jumping out of a sinking ship, leaving my staff to drown.

It was like planning your own funeral.

I shut my laptop and shoved it into the trash with the heel of my Oxford, deciding I didn’t want to take anything with me from this place. Fuck it.

CSP, a competing channel, was building a news division in Los Angeles, and it seemed like a good idea to put a few thousand miles between me and Mathias. But that wasn’t why I’d quit my job.

I didn’t want to see Judith’s face every day, knowing I’d put the scowl there.

So I made way for her, because I would never fire her, and because really, she’d earned her place in my newsroom perhaps even more than I had.

There hadn’t been a huge breakdown to compliment my heartbreak. It was quiet, yet somehow a thousand times worse than I’d ever experienced. Every day when she left the office, she took something with her.