All I hear when I open my eyes is the near-silent hum of electricity in the house. No gentle breathing from the other side of the room, no quiet footsteps padding down the hall, no creaking as you shift on your side of the bed. The bed's cold. That's what woke me up. Then I remember- you're not here. There are no noises being made in the house because there's no one here to make them.

I climb from the bed that seems so much larger than it should. My feet, clad in soft socks, make a sound that's too loud. Every step I take has me cringing as it brings me closer to the realization that you're on the other side of the world, as unreachable as you would be on the moon.

Suddenly, everything is too much. The buzzing of the refrigerator, the gentle morning light. My breathing. I sink to the floor in complete despair, as my world is rocked by the idea of being alone. A tortured sob wracks my body.

I wake up.

The room is dark. The other side of the bed is still warm. You only went to get a drink of water. When you slide back under the covers I lay my head against your chest, listening to your heartbeat. I'm not alone. Your arms wrap around me and lull me back to sleep.

I am not alone.