Nia
Reeves is not with me when we drive home. He might be the one steering the wheel, but his mind is elsewhere, a territory I seem to temporarily be banned from visiting. After the fourth time my attempt at starting a line of communication is dismissed by a curt answer, I let it go.
And yet, somehow, I find myself turning to sleep next to him. I watch Reeves through the moon's halo softly illuminating the dark room. Hard features, head rested on his hand over a pillow, staring, burning a hole in the ceiling. As my eyes become heavy, I feel the warmth of his hand covering mine. I turn my hand so we're palm to palm and lace our fingers together. The last thought before falling asleep is of Reeves leaving for Cuba tomorrow, for a whole week, for work. The idea of not being able to sleep next to him for a whole week drops my mood even lower. Funny enough, I already miss him though he is right next to me.
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