"Sorry," she says, sinking down on the couch beside him, taking his hand when he offers it. It feels strange to have someone still willing to do that, offer their hand when she's told them something that clearly isn't exactly what people look at as good news.

"There's not a but, it's just... you know how you have writing? That one thing you're so good at that when you're doing it, it feels like nothing else could matter? People pay you for that, it's more than an acceptable way to make a living. You get to do the one thing you're best at. I don't. Not anymore."