The wallpaper in their tiny apartment was peeling in long, beige strips, a constant reminder of the life James promised they would outrun. He sat at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands, while the low hum of the refrigerator filled the silence between them. He was a vision of old-school grit—tough, tattoos creeping up his neck, and eyes that always seemed to be looking at a horizon she couldn’t see. To her, he was everything. She loved him with a desperate, cinematic intensity, the kind that didn’t care about the empty cupboards or the "Past Due" notices piling up by the door.