Desmond
Ihad no business being awake.
That was the first thought I had as I stood in line, snow melting into my collar, my hands wrapped around nothing but air while I waited for a cup of coffee that wasn’t even for me.
I should have been asleep. I should have been conserving myself the way I always did — rationing energy, rationing feeling, staying just this side of functional.
Instead, I was wide open and humming, like someone had reached inside my chest and turned a dial I didn’t know existed.
Not even five hours after she’d left my house, post-snowstorm, and I found myself missing her.
I kept replaying her order in my head, terrified I’d forget some crucial detail.
Extra foam. One sugar. She hated lids unless she was walking far, saying it dulled the smell.
I could hear her voice as clearly as if she were standing beside me, elbowing my ribs, calling me ridiculous for trying so hard.
The thought made my mouth curve up before I could stop it.
Jesus Christ.
I took the cup with a murmured thanks and stepped back outside, the cold biting sharp and clean against my face.
Snow fell steadily, thick enough to soften the world, to make the streetlight’s glow like something out of a memory instead of real life.
Everything felt slowed, muted, like the city itself was holding its breath.
I held the coffee too carefully. Both hands. Like it mattered. Like I could protect it from more than just spilling.
The truth crept up on me halfway down the block, quiet and insistent, and stopped me cold: I missed her.
Actively. Physically. The way you notice when a sound you’ve grown used to disappears.
My place had felt wrong without her — too neat, too still, like it was waiting for her to just…
walk back through the door. I’d gone to bed alone and spent half the night staring at the ceiling, cataloging all the small things I hadn’t known I’d learned about her until they were gone.
Her shoes by the door.
The way she stole the blankets without apologizing.
The warmth of her back when she slept, solid and unafraid.
I hadn’t expected that part. The trust. The way she took up space as if she belonged there.
I imagined her at work now, hair pulled back tight because she never remembered to loosen it until it started to ache, shoulders already carrying too much.
I imagined handing her the cup, watching her eyes flick down to it and then back up to me, that soft, surprised look she got when someone did something kind without making a joke out of it.
I imagined the split second where she’d pretend not to care — and then fail.
The image hit me hard enough that I had to stop walking.
This was new. This feeling — full and stupid and bright. It sat in my chest like a held breath, like a laugh I didn’t know how to let out. I wasn’t built for this kind of anticipation. I wasn’t practiced at wanting something simply because it would make someone else smile.
You’re in trouble, Desmond, I thought, not unkindly. Not afraid.
The hospital came into view, all glass and light and familiarity, and the sight of it made something warm bloom behind my ribs.
I adjusted my grip on the cup, careful not to spill any because of her ridiculous lid aversion.
I was already rehearsing what I’d say — something casual, something stupid. Teasing. Normal.
I took another step forward, snow whispering under my boots, the world narrowed down to one small, reckless intention.
I never even saw the bus.