It works both ways.
Sometimes she'll roll over, and he'll be there - curled in on himself or against her. Other times, he'll be oceans and oceans and oceans away. It's on those nights she's left to make the decision of turing back to shore or starting to swim.
Sometimes he'll roll over, and she'll be there - on her side, or back or stomach - floating freely; drifting towards him and away. Other nights he'll wake to the sound of feet shuffling against floor and as soon as he opens his eyes, he can see the shadows dancing; making way for the silhouette as it tumbles back and forth. That becomes a familiarity. The real surprise is in who he gets to meet when he rises from the bed. A mother or a father; daughter or son. Lover or a mistress - warrior or priest. It's endless, the amount of people she became.
When he starts keeping journals - filling them with information generated in early morning screaming matches; names and places and ages and history - he tells himself that its for both their sakes.
She tried reading them at first. But only after a few pages the sound of paper turning would be replaced by wails. It'd come to the point where he had hidden them - for both their sakes - because when she got deep enough, she refused to let them go; ended up screaming and shoving, throwing punches.
He does everything in his power to make sure she doesn't hurt herself.
But he doesn't have the same claim to do that for himself. After all, he did this.
She tells him he didn't.
But he knows if he asks softly enough and late enough - with the two of them wrapped in comforter upon comforter, their breaths pooling togther between them - she'll hesitate before answering, "No. No I don't regret it."
But she still hesitates. He thinks she doesn't realize. She thinks that he doesn't notice.
After all, the time spent within her own mind is an unknown pocket; with her hand inside it, digging for something that may or may not be there.
Her form begins to crack; weeks peel by and her skin starts to split. More and more often he wakes to the sound of muffled howls.
More and more often, he can't do anything.
He stops writing the journals when he stops being able to get words out of her. Months begin to tick by, sliding past them lathered and agony and stretched out silences, falling far beneath their feet.
One morning he wakes to empty, heavy sheets pooling around his ankles. He can see her - just barely - on the shoreline. The lines between consciousness and its opposite blurring between his eyes. He's floating in the water - it's pulling at his calves, hugging his waist, pinching his shoulders.
He can hear the sound of boxes being packed - clothes being shoved togther, objects and memories being tossed down upon that - can hear the waves as they collapse against the shore. His chest aches; the water pulls him under, beats his lungs, trying to prod the air outside.
He resurfaces.
She's gone.
The waves have washed away the remaining foot prints on the shore.
He drags himself from the bed, limbs disconnected and frayed, fists are born on the top of his thighs. He falls back, the sheets are damp, the ceiling above him hums. It's far too warm for winter. His face feels taunt - flushed a deep cherry red, translucent seeds slip from the edges of his eyes, fading into the sheets.
"Do you regret it?" He asks.
Her hesitation stretches on.