The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 543

Stepping out of the shower, she vigorously towel-dried her hair while instinctively wandering back to the window.

Just one look. One final look!

Just to check, and then she was going straight to sleep.

She wiped a small circle through the condensation, the scene coming into terrifyingly sharp focus.

Under the flickering streetlamp, inside the gazebo, the figure was still there.

He was slumped against the pillar, his lower half nearly buried in snowdrifts. His hair was completely white with frost, his coat smothered under a thick layer of ice. The last traces of life had drained from his face; his lips were a bruised, ashen purple. His eyes were half-closed, heavy icicles weighing down his lashes.

He was no longer curled up to preserve heat. It looked as if he didn't even have the strength left to shiver. He was merely slumped against the wood, barely maintaining a seated position, looking like an abandoned statue left to rot in the blizzard.

Sloane's heart completely dropped.

That absolute idiot!

No, if he stayed out there any longer, he was legitimately going to die!

Panic surged through her. She scrambled into her puffer jacket, tore a thick cashmere coat out of her closet, and sprinted toward the door.

But as she rushed past the window, she threw one last glance outside.

This time, Garrison was moving.

Grasping the pillar with everything he had, he was slowly, agonizingly dragging himself to his feet. His body swayed violently, nearly pitching face-first into the snowbank.

He stabilized himself, then doubled completely over, his right arm locking around his stomach like a vice. He curled inward, looking like a shattered, hollow shell.

He stood frozen in the snow for about ten seconds before he took a stumbling, unsteady step out of the gazebo.

Every step sank deep. The snow was past his ankles. His pace was agonizingly slow, and every few feet, he had to stop, clutching his stomach to gasp for air. Then, he tilted his head up and looked directly at her window.

The glance was brief—so fleeting it almost seemed accidental—but through the blinding flurry, his gaze landed precisely on her glass.

Then, he lowered his head, turned away, and slowly vanished into the darkness at the end of the street, still gripping his stomach.

Sloane stood paralyzed by the window, clutching the heavy cashmere coat to her chest. Watching his retreating back disappear, she finally exhaled a long, shaky breath.

He was gone.