Like he needs it.
Like I do.
For a second I forget how to breathe.
Everything else disappears.
The slammed door.
The porch.
The last two weeks.
It’s just him.
He climbs in, dropping onto my bed like he belongs there.
He gestures for me to join him.
I don’t hesitate.
I never do.
This time, when I get under the covers — he pulls me in.
Closer than ever before.
Arms wrapped tight around me.
Like he’s holding on.
Or maybe — like he’s afraid I’ll disappear too.
We don’t talk.
We don’t need to.
We just stay like that.
Tangled together.
Breathing each other’s air.
And for a few hours — everything feels right again.
• • •
By morning — he’s gone.
Again.
No note.
No message.
Nothing.
I stare at the empty space beside me.
