I didn't fall asleep immediately.
But I did eventually. Maybe thirty minutes later.
Val didn't.
She lay there beside me, still as glass, her breathing too shallow, too careful, like she was afraid the quiet between us would shatter if she moved too much. I could feel it, even half-asleep: the weight of her thoughts, the way she kept turning slightly, then stopping, like she wanted to reach for me but couldn't.
And maybe she didn't sleep at all. Because every time I stirred, her side of the bed was warm, not the kind of warmth that came from rest, but from someone who'd been lying awake too long.
If I'd opened my eyes, maybe I would've seen her staring at the ceiling, hands clutching the sheets, eyes red and glassy, fighting back tears that had nowhere to go. Maybe I would've seen the guilt written all over her face, the way she bit her lip to keep herself from making a sound.
But I didn't. I just slept, thinking distance would make it easier.
It didn't.
