She loved him. That was the problem. She wasn’t she anymore. She was his rock; he was the rock in her stream, another obstacle gathering moss, a thing for other people to step on to get to the other side of the water, to move forward. The version of her that loved him was real and true, but it was time for that part of her to be left in the photo album. Like that cherished childhood tree in the garden that keeps you from starting the building work on your house, one last piece clung onto for posterity. She had to let both of them go, both him and the her that loved him.