The bedroom is a yawning void of silence, too loud and too empty to be sleep. Derek's breathing fills the space beside me, but I know he's awake. I feel it in the shift of the mattress, in the shift of the air, in the secrets that won't let me rest. I keep my eyes shut, pretend not to notice when he slips from the bed, when the light under the bathroom door slices the dark into uneven halves. The shadows stretch like fingers, like lies. I watch them from beneath half-closed lids and wait for him to come back to me.
He’s gone longer than I expect, longer than makes sense, longer than I can bear. The light cuts off abruptly, and his footsteps pad soft across the carpet, soft against the floor, soft against my mind. I let my eyes flutter open as he climbs back into bed, as he slips into the
