The evening light slants through the tall glass walls, golden and heavy, spilling across the polished marble floor. I sit on the couch, leaning back against the cushions, a book open on my lap. My eyes move across the words, but nothing stays. The letters blur together, the sentences dissolving before I can hold onto them.
My gaze drifts to the phone resting on the table beside me.
Almost evening. He's still sleeping.
Should I check on him? Make sure he's breathing?
I shake my head and force my attention back to the page, turning it with more force than necessary.
Why am I so worried about him? He's fine.
But the words won't settle. The paragraphs blur together. Time drags painfully slow, thick and heavy, pulling at the edges of my patience.
My gaze drifts to the phone again.
What if he collapsed in his room?
Alone?
