I never talked about the day that my lover died because… well, I was too ashamed and guilty to talk about it.

She didn't just die because I knotted in her; she died because I lost control.

I remember the pain in her eyes at those last moments. I barely remember what she looks like or the color of her eyes, but I remember the look in them—that look of fear.

And occasionally I question myself if what I really felt for her was love or just the idea of her. The idea that even though she knew what I was, she still loved me, still clung to me like...