He dropped his bags next to the sofa and opened his laptop that was on the small dining table. He had to keep busy. He had to keep his mind occupied. Without bothering to sit down, he began to click through images from various photo shoots—he wasn't even paying attention to what was on the screen.

He had to keep busy. He didn't want to think about anything else. Not women. Not going out. Not anything. He closed his eyes tightly. He wished he could disappear. He had done a pretty good job of practically disappearing. He made sure that people knew very little about him. He tried to remain anonymous behind his camera. Once people began to get too curious or too friendly, he would pack up and leave town.

It wasn't the first time that a woman had come on to him or made suggestive comments. But this was the first time that his body had reacted. Not because he was even remotely interested in Carolyn Cosby or her friend. It was her voice. Her newcaster's voice was her instrument, and she used it to caress his skin. Her soft, friendly, alluring voice. It reminded him of—no, stop it, he reprimanded himself. She is gone, out of your life. You can't have her. It's over.

Angrily, he slapped both hands on the table and turned away. He missed her so much that he could not put it into words. It was a palpable ache that squeezed his heart in an iron grip. He tore the baseball cap off his head and ran a hand through his blond hair, messing it up. He still remembered every detail about her. Nothing had ever hurt him as much as the memories, not even the bullet.

He dropped down onto the couch and placed his head in his hands. Before he could stop himself, he was sobbing. It was a loud, ugly cry. Tears streamed down his face and fell on his knees, on the floor without stopping. It was a torrent. He allowed himself to cry louder. He needed to let out his pain, his frustration, his regret.

He missed her! He wanted her back! He might not make it without her. He heard that she'd not been well, that she hadn't been herself for a long time. It was almost as if she were in exile. He knew that it was all his fault.

All that time he'd spent thinking about her, loving her. She had been an integral part of his life. She was the reason why he'd been the person he was. If he could just hold her hand one more time. If he could just see her face. He was nothing without her. He didn't care what all those papers and gossip columns had printed about him and her. Lovers. Ex-lovers. Who cared after all this time. He had been wrong about so many things, and now he couldn't go back. She was out of his reach, wherever she was.

She had loved him so much, and he'd never appreciated her. He recalled the way her body felt under his hands, her little gasps of pleasure. He remembered how his heart beat faster every time he got close to her. He should've cherished her. Instead, he ruined her life. She was a shining star, and now she wasn't. It was all his fault.

He wiped his tears roughly and got to his feet. He opened a kitchen cabinet and pulled out a whisky bottle and a glass. As he filled the glass, his mind wandered again. Her eyes, her lips—they haunted him. He shook his head and raised his glass.

"To you, my love," he said hoarsely before drinking it all in one gulp. He dragged himself to the table where he planned to drink until his memories faded at least for another night.