Instantly I know something is wrong. He sounds like he’s crying, or at least in a world of pain.
“What’s wrong?” I say, panicking.
He winces. “I hit my head.”
Alarm bells go off in my brain. Fuck! What if he’s bleeding?! What if he’s got a concussion? What if it’s even worse? I can’t lose him!
I raise myself up and assess the situation. He says he’s in terrible pain, but he’s not bleeding. I lie him down and ask him about a billion times if I need to get ice or a doctor. He reassures me that no such thing is needed and that he’s fine. Cuddles are all he needs.
I’m still spooked though. But the cuddles seem to make it better. That and a healthy dose of The Nostalgia Critic.
“Sorry I didn’t make you come before I hurt myself.” he says about five times.
“It’s okay, really!” I reassure him. The sudden realization that I’m going back to Brent the day after makes me grab on to him even tighter.
The following morning, we get awoken by my mother calling. After our brief chat (which mainly consisted out of me grunting), I grab on to him and hold him until I can’t hold him any more. He feels better, he says, but now it’s me who’s feeling worse for wear.
After lunch, he walks me to the station and pays for my train ticket. The tears come thick and fast, but he holds me and reassures me that I’m going to see him again really soon.
And then we part and I’m on the train, alone. Memories of a week of emotions and love throb in my head and I sit perfectly still with tears on my face, trying to be a brave lady.
Now I’m home. Well, not really home. House? Let’s keep it at that. Anyway. I’m in Brent, typing this post. Outside, it’s dark and rainy. Inside, it’s chilly. I’m counting the days until I get to nestle in his nook again, under the sheets of his bed in his room in the house where I feel at home.
I could use the cuddles.