I cried when I left your apartment. You kissed me gently, the way you kiss me when you don't know what to say and you want to make me feel better. You kissed me awkwardly, admitting that you didn't know what to do to make me feel better. I cried while I was driving home. I cried when I walked into my apartment and realized that my favorite sheets were still in the washing machine. I cried when I pulled out an old set of floral sheets and threw them over my mattress.
I washed my face and cried. I turned out the light and rushed to my bed, because I'm still afraid of the dark and the monster under the bed. I made sure that my toes weren't hanging out from under the covers and I curled up next to Vegas, who had already settled into her normal donut shape in the very center of my bed. And I cried myself to sleep, because I'm not even sure what I could do to make myself feel better.