She was awake before her alarm.
This had been happening more frequently lately — the specific, early wakefulness of someone whose mind had decided it had somewhere to be before the rest of the day had caught up. She lay in the dark of her room for a moment and looked at the ceiling and felt the particular, quiet fullness of Sunday still present in her chest like something that had settled there and intended to stay.
The hike. The waterfall. The cupcake in the December air.
His head resting on top of hers.
She had lain in exactly this position Sunday night and run through it — not with the anxious, cataloguing quality of someone trying to understand what it meant, but with the specific, settled warmth of someone who already knew what it meant and was simply living in it for a while. She
