Tyrone sent me a draft of his next blog post. It's titled 'The Anatomy of a Wound.' He included a footnote about how I 'systematically dismantled his sense of self.' He's not wrong. I remember the exact night I started. We were at his company's holiday party. I spent the entire evening flirting with his boss, laughing a little too loud at his jokes, touching his arm just a second too long. Tyrone watched from across the room, holding two glasses of champagne. When I finally came back to him, he was quiet. I asked if he was okay. He said, 'You looked happy.' I took the champagne, drank from his glass, and said, 'I am.' The dismantling wasn't a single act. It was a thousand tiny cuts. A glance held elsewhere. A laugh shared with someone else. A whispered conversation in the corner while he stood alone. He writes about the wound. He never writes about the surgery. The precision. The care I took to make sure he felt every single cut, but could never quite see the blade. That's the art of it. You don't destroy someone. You make them watch their own foundation crumble and believe it was an earthquake.