I couldn't sleep. I didn't know where Craig was. My shoulder hurt from being slammed into the wall, and I rubbed it and felt sad. I'd wanted to believe that Craig was different, that despite being bipolar he wouldn't be violent, though why I thought this I couldn't say. I'd seen him be violent so many times. That glass he threw wasn't the first thing I'd seen him destroy. The hotel room back in grade 11, what was it? A thousand dollars worth of damages? Three thousand? I saw him beat up Joey, I saw the contorted angry look on his face.

I was crying, the tears coursing down slowly, little hitching sobs every so often. He could be so gentle sometimes, he could be so kind and tender, like when he was on those stupid meds and they were working and he'd put his arm around me, he'd kiss me softly on the lips. I shook my head, thinking how I guessed he couldn't help it. Out of control. A chemical imbalance in his brain. But did I have to suffer because of this? I shook my head, glancing out the thick paned windows at the lights, the sidewalks and the other hotels outside.

Without even realizing it I slept for a few hours and awoke to the dim light streaming into the room, landing on the bedspread and the rug, and sparkling on the broken glass.

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I felt better after having taking a shower, and my hair was still dripping wet as I sipped my coffee and stared out the window. Did I think I'd see him? But I couldn't stop my vigil at the window. The coffee was stronger than I was used to, but that had been the case throughout Europe. I was always amazed at the little differences here. It was so familiar in a way, yet foreign. I had felt that way in England, too. Right about now, the steam rising from my coffee, my hair wet around my shoulders, soaking the material of my robe, I wished I'd stayed in England.

I heard the latch of the door, heard someone step softly inside. I didn't want to look. I continued to stare out the window, but I could hear him breathing. It was Craig.

I turned around, too tired and wrung out to be scared. I didn't care what he'd do, honestly. He could hit me. It would be fine. But the ragged and jagged energy that had been around him had faded, and he looked sheepish and sorry. His head was down but he was looking at me with those large hazel eyes.

"Ash," he said, and I just looked at him. I didn't know what to say. I was tired of having to save him.

"You're back," I said, and he came and sat at the table with me, nodded his head.

"Ash, I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to hurt you," The tears in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice. It pulled on something in me and of course I forgave him. I'd forgive him anything.

"You seem…calmer," I said, and he did. I knew the little signs of his manic behavior and he wasn't showing them. His legs were still. He wasn't tapping the table top with his fingernails. He wasn't talking a mile a minute.

"I know, I, uh, I took an extra seroquel. You know, a prn," I knew this phrase, this wording, "prn," It was latin, it was a latin abbreviation but what it meant in English was "as needed," He was prescribed all of this medication but some of it was "take as needed," for agitation and mania and anxiety, all these ills. Pop a little pill. But he did seem better, or at least more manageable. I thought I could tell him about calling Joey without him freaking out on me.