Two days later, as she lay in her bed, watching a boring talk show on the television, she thought about Drew. Her bedside table now housed a vase of colorful spring flowers. She could still feel the brief, gentle kisses he'd given her, along with the bouquet. He's acting like no time has passed since our last date, like he's still my boyfriend. It's kind of nice. I've always liked Drew's version of emotional support, but I'm not sure if it's right to begin depending on him heavily for it. Once the morphine started to wear off, she realized to her displeasure all the different ways there were to hurt, from the IV, which felt like the worse bruise ever, to the sharp, throbbing pain where she'd been cut, to the deep ache of the broken bone. And that's not the worst of it. I hate, Hate, HATE b
