Not mine. Not now. Not ever.
Frozen
I don't know what else you want.
I've done everything for you. I've worked late shifts, fetched countless coffees, taken crappy patients. Hell, I named my son after you. And you can't find it within yourself to give back one hug?
Just one?
I'm lying in my tent, the icy wind rushing in like a tidal wave. It's slapping my face, Perry, just like you have countless times. The wind is cold, harsh, impersonal. In a hurry to get away from me.
Sound familiar?
All I need is a little warmth. A little fire. A little company.
A little hug.
The sleeping bag's wrapped so tightly around me I can't feel my feet. Or maybe it's because that end of the tent is covered with snow. I'm wearing every scrap of clothing I possess, yet I'm still turning blue. I'm paddling to keep my head above water, yet I'm already drowning.
I'm doing everything I can think of, yet it's never enough.
I have nowhere to go. No one to turn to. No one else to ask. I don't care if I sound like a desperate whiny six-year-old girl. I know there's a shiny golden heart somewhere beneath the grizzly suit.
Just one hug.
Please.
That's all I'm asking.
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