Your presence hums behind me like electricity. I don’t want to open my eyes because you might be awake. And I know your eyes will be big and adoring, alert and searching me. Through the window, the sun will make geometric shapes on the smooth wooden planks of my floor and I will put my hand in it, to feel that contrast between cold sheets and warm light. You will be waiting for me and waiting for what I will have to say. My night was restless, and I cannot tell you about the visions; the cage I was in, the way I gripped steel bars with white knuckles and ground my teeth. Now I am awake and hiding behind my eyelids because I don’t know why you’re here, why I called you and said, “Yes, yes. Come visit me. Come here.”

I feel heavy, like my bones are lead. It won’t be long until I am alone in front of tall windows, watching your car roll away from a snow-covered curb and sighing in the space you’ve left behind. The engine of your old black station wagon, that stubborn heap of junk, will grumble and spit and prepare to take you eight hours southeast, a journey it may not survive. I’ll rub my sleepy eyes and think, I should’ve asked you to call me when you get home, so I know you’re safe. I could’ve done this, at least.

Are you sleeping? I open my eyes a little, see your body wrapped in a blanket and hear you breathing—steady, mechanical. Your lungs work dutifully while you dream.

I loved you once. I was so young. I smoked cigarettes on the roof of my parents’ house and wanted to hop trains for the rest of my life. I used to say that you were the only reason I stayed in that suburban nightmare, all 7-11s and Subways and traffic. But we both know now that wasn’t the case. You waited for me in your father’s car, engine purring, while I crept quietly past my parents’ bedroom door. I crawled through the basement window, my heart pounding pounding pounding. We ran down alleyways, singing and shouting, drove to the beach and kissed under a curtain of moonlight. When you stopped calling me, I thought I was dying, felt my insides collapse and a hollowness replace them. My intestines, liver, colon: all gone. I stayed in my bedroom for a week, sketching pictures of your face with charcoal. You refused to see me, and I refused to forget you.

You are still the same. Your hair sticks up on one side of your head, you smile with your whole face. You nod when you’re listening to music, as if you’re saying “yes, yes, yes!” Lying before me in sleep, your arms stretch out on the mattress before me. An unconscious beckoning. I stay out of your reach.

When you said you’d be in the area, my life became a waiting room. In class, my mind wandered recklessly. I envisioned your arrival, your apologies, your promises. Our fingers entwined and the world becoming beautiful again. I’ll sing while I wash the dishes. And we will drive south and feel that thick warm air on our winter-pale skin. There will be empanadas and strong tequila the color of honey and men playing guitar on the sidewalk who will smile and call me señorita.

But you are sleeping. We are still here, and the thin walls don’t keep the cold from creeping into the house. There are dishes piled up in the sink and the shattered pieces of a vase scattered on the living room floor. Last night, I heard a crash. And when I ran in, you stood staring at the mess, smiling nervously at me.

“We could glue it back together,” you suggested cautiously.

“It’s not worth it,” I shrugged. In silence we watched the dust settle at our feet.