In this stolen time I watch him. I sit motionless for long minutes, curled up in his favourite armchair, and watch him.

The specks of dust on his lashes, the mingling light of the streetlamps and the sunrise – they soften his features into peace. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm that measures my thoughts.

Rise.

I love you.

Fall.

I love you.

Rise.

I love you.

Fall.

I love you.

Rise—

Sometimes I'm distracted by the way his hair contrasts with the pale, too pale skin. I bite my fingers to stop them from reaching out and brushing the strands from his forehead. I don't want him to wake up. Not yet. This is the only time when I can watch him like this. When I don't duck my head and he doesn't look away. When I don't feel the bitter pang in my mouth after every harsh word that so easily rolls off my tongue, when I don't think of gripping his shoulders and shaking him violently, and crying "Why? Why? Why?"

It will start soon enough. He'll stir, and I'll swiftly go to the kitchen and start making breakfast. He'll ask with his sleepy voice how long I've been awake. Not long, Moony, I'll say. I've just gotten up. He will then join me, and won't ask about the black circles under my eyes from sitting and watching him in the grey light of the daybreak.

But now he's still asleep, and I can ask all the questions I need to ask.

He turns on his back, his hands resting on both sides of his head in a childlike manner, and I think he's just broken my heart. Perhaps if he woke up now, if he saw me with my eyes widened and my hands clutching the armrests, if he looked— And I'd tell him, I'd tell him everything, I'd ask him and hold him, I'll tell him—

"Moony."

Moony, open your eyes.

"Moony."

Please.

"M—Moony…"

He stirs.

He turns on his side, his back to me.

Relaxing in the armchair, I trace the line of his shoulders with my eyes.

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