Chapter 1: Brittle Boned

"Pulse is slow, faint metronome on my left side,

beneath my protruding spine, you can hardly hear at night.

White flag, blindfold covering my sunken eyes,

and a line of rifles aimed at my sick mind."

— "Brittle Boned," Julien Baker

"It's final, Ron. I'm leaving. And you can't come with me this time," Hermione Granger said firmly, her face unmoving. She stood near the door of their spacious London flat with a small knapsack near her feet.

Ron, clad in maroon pajama pants, had just pulled a plate from the cupboard, ready to pile it high with the breakfast Hermione cooked each morning. He was hungover—again—she realized, noting his glazed eyes, the way he shuffled into the kitchen. In the aftermath of her statement, he simply looked at her, bewildered. "But...why?"

"Things haven't been good for a while, you know that-" Hermione began. Ron cut her off, his mouth slack.

"We...we moved...for you. I did... everything you asked," The words poured from his mouth slowly, that molasses movement she knew meant he was stressed. She longed to go to him, to clasp his hands and comfort him and make things the way they were once. But she knew they wouldn't fit anymore. "Hermione, please, we're working on this. I know it's...not perfect, but we can be like it was before."

Hermione felt her stoic facade spasm in pain that felt almost physical. "It can't Ron. We're not those euphoric kids who had just won a war anymore. I've been here, trying to deal with the decisions we made then, trying to suppress what we've been through, trying to reconcile myself with this person in the mirror I don't know anymore."

She could feel the cold tears slip down the sides of her nose, salt on her lips. She pressed on. "I can't keep pretending I'm not spending every day waiting until the moment I can crawl back into bed and sleep alone. I can't keep pretending each night that you're not at the bar throwing back firewhiskey and wishing I was someone else."

At this, Ron dropped the plate with a clatter and went to her, grasping at her elbows, staring her straight in the eyes for the first time in months. "I never wished you were someone else," Ron whispered, tears in his eyes. "You did."

Maybe it was true. When she pictured her and Ron in the future, she saw a vision of herself - smiling, the gauntness gone from her face. She was setting a plate on a picnic table, children clamored for a seat. And a hand reached for hers and Ron was grinning, and Harry and Ginny were seated there too and they had forgiven her. Everyone was better and everything was safe. And then she saw the vision blur, shredded to pieces by her own hands.

And Hermione crumpled into Ron's arms and he held her close and warm like he never did anymore. She murmured his name into his chest. "I'm sorry," she said, hoping he could hear everything else she meant - that it was her fault, that she knew she had ruined it, that she hoped somebody else could be for him what she couldn't be. As she pulled away, she kissed the side of his neck and grabbed her bag off the floor. She opened the door and did not look back until she was halfway down the street. And there Ron stood, in front of their red door on the second floor. He held up a hand. Then he turned and closed the door.

The tears stung her eyes as she walked to the train station. London's chilly attempt at August left her shivering in the thin blue sweater she'd put on that morning. August 27, a day she would always remember as the day she'd left her husband.