“Can’t sleep,” she murmurs.
I don’t answer right away. Not because I don’t want to.
Because I don’t trust what I’ll say if I do.
I roll onto my back, arms folded behind my head, and glance over.
She’s still staring upward, her expression unreadable in the moonlight.
“Me either.”
A beat passes.
“Do you always play guitar in the middle of the night?” she asks, a smile tucked into her tone.
“Only when I’m trying not to think.”
It slips out before I can stop it.
She doesn’t push. Just lets the quiet stretch, like she’s giving me space to take it back.
I don’t.
Her voice breaks the silence again. “That song...what was it?”
I shift slightly, my foot brushing the sheet near hers.
“Something my mom used to hum when she did dishes. I never knew the name. Just…remembered the sound of it.”
She doesn’t speak. But I feel her looking at me now. Not just hearing me—really looking.
“You don’t talk about her much, do you?” she finally says.
“No.” My throat’s tight. “Not usually.”
Another pause. No pressure. Just the quiet kind of understanding.
“I liked it,” she says softly. “The way you played. It felt honest.”
Honest.
That word sinks deep.
“I guess I don’t have the energy to fake anything right now.”
She lets out a soft laugh, dry but not unkind. “Then we’re both pretty raw, huh?”
I nod, then realize she can’t see it. “Yeah.”
Our bodies haven’t moved. We’re still on opposite sides of the bed, barely taking up space. But something about the air between us shifts to something warmer. Closer.
I glance sideways again. Her profile’s faint in the dark, hair messy against the pillow, one hand tucked under her chin.
“I don’t usually do this,” she says suddenly. “Stay. Talk. Any of it.”
I don’t push. I just listen. Maybe that’s the most honest thing I can do for her.
She turns her face toward me slightly. I feel the weight of her gaze.
