You did. You wrote it with me—beside me. We wrote the seven-year plan, as if the act of writing them would make them inevitable. We painted walls and filled the rooms with promises, as if they could hold time still for us. We left pieces of ourselves in every corner, as if they would be enough to keep the place whole. We shared our dreams, as if speaking them aloud would turn them into something tangible. And though we tried to hold onto them, we could not keep the walls from crumbling.