His fever lasts nearly a week. I don't mind; I skip school, and lay in bed with him. He sleeps with his cheek pillowed on my breast and his arms around my waist. Our dog stands guard, laying on my other side with her ears always pointed at the door.
When the fever finally breaks, he is weak. He eats as much as he can, but it's not enough. He sleeps for at least twelve hours a day, and tells me that he loves me every time I enter the room.
I love him. How can I not?
It takes another week for him to recover, but he doesn't go to school. He has stopped, at this point. He waits only three more days to go back to work.
In the mornings, we wake to the same alarm. We shower in the same bathroom, dress in the same bedroom. He layers his clothes, his snowsuit. I layer my clothes, my windbreakers.
We leave the house together, in separate directions. He comes home first, covered in snow, and I arrive soon after, red dirt in every crevice.
We shower in the same bathroom, and eat in the same kitchen. We sleep in the same bed, and dance to our own private song.
Only when I am laying by his side the night after he goes back to work do I realize that I have stopped running.
YOU ARE READING
Orange Sunday
Teen FictionGrief can be a blur, a loss of sensation, a nightmare you can't seem to escape. But sometimes, it can wake you up. --- I wrote this when I was mourning a relationship. I'm publishing it now to close the door on those feelings.
