Ch.3
The room was dark, as was her heart and the circles etched under her sore eyes. It took Cristina a while to remember where she was. The last time she was awake she was on the kitchen floor. She must have been sleep walking, or why would she be on the couch?

The windows were closed, but the living room wasn't heating up yet. It was early in the morning, perhaps it was still the previous night. Either way, Cristina curled her body in the couch and tried to remember what happened.

If one couldn't remember what happened, would that mean it was only a bad dream? Cristina wished it was only a nightmare, but it wouldn't make sense for her to be in work clothes sleeping on the couch if it wasn't real. She tried to close her eyes again, hoping this was yet another part of her bad dream marathon.

It didn't help. Who was she trying to fool?

Did she sleep? Why did her head hurt so badly and her eyes feel so raw? Propping herself up, she took one cushion into her embrace. Cristina didn't like to be hugged, but this morning she badly needed one, even if that would mean hugging a bag of cotton.

Staring in the direction of the bedroom door, Cristina rested her head on the cushion and let the silence fill her heart. The sound of silence was harder to bear than the bitter howls. At least, when she was yelled at by Burke, she still saw his presence, she still stood a chance to do something. Sitting alone in the dark, she gasped at the idea that everything was gone.

She was wrong, but so was he. He was hurt, so was she. Regret was still occupying her heart, but a night of disturbed sleep was slowly allowing logic and irritation to take over.

Regret aside, the biggest punishment was the silence. All-encompassing, almost omnipotent, yet the completeness of silence only brought out the incompleteness of certainty about their future. It was neither a yes nor a no, but a freaking I don't know.

Standing up, Cristina pushed her hair to the back and walked towards the kitchen counter. The slowly emerging frustration was going to save her, she hoped. It might push the guilt and hurt away. She needed the bitterness to help her get through the day. Nobody else was going to help her. Her hands automatically drew her to the coffee maker. She let every drop in her cup go down her throat at the speed of a rocket and walked out of the apartment—life went on.

Burke waited until the sound of the water stopped and the door clicked. Cristina had finally left. It was a cold and lonely night. Many times, he shifted in his bed, feeling the insurmountable amount of pressure pressing him down his side of the mattress.

They, well, he, needed a new mattress.

Burke wished he could stop thinking in plural term. If there was nobody else on the other side to maintain the balance, he needed a new mattress, even if he wasn't ready. He used to find the bed too small sleeping alone, but this morning, it seemed so big that he was sinking into it, eaten up by it, and losing himself in a sea of confusion.

It wasn't anger that was still circulating in his bloodstream. It was something more ambiguous. At some point, it almost felt like he was having a hemorrhage, one that was making everything hazy and lucid at the same time.

The alarm would not go off in another 3 hours—the alarm that he bought for Cristina, because he always woke up naturally without the need of that. Watching the seconds hand move methodically around the clock face, he tried hard to trace back to the time when his life began to lose that steadiness.

He was glad she was gone. At least it meant she was there last night. She was safe.

It wasn't an easy task to constantly remind himself how mad he was supposed to be. He should be mad at Cristina, but the best he could do was to ignore her, and even that was not easy. When he carried her to the couch and threw a blanket on top of her last night, he was scared he would wake her. Cristina should not know that he still cared about her.

Swtiching between thoughts, Burke felt like a young boy once more--one who got a tummy ache after eating too much of his favorite chocolate ice-cream.

But he could not be eternally mad at the ice-cream nor stay away from it, could he? It was silly thoughts like this that put a bittersweet smile on his face. How he wished he could smile because of something that wasn't self-generated.

Stepping into the kitchen, Burke was amazed at how quickly God was answering his prayer. He couldn't help but squint his eyes and allowed his lips to curl up for a brief second when he saw a pot of coffee standing alongside a bottle of creamer. Somebody had made him coffee, washed his mug, and left 2 cubes of sugar in it. It wasn't in his head. It was something real. Ironic, but real.

As the silver spoon danced in his coffee, Burke's mind began to stir. Was it a mere act of domestic routine, or was it a sign that things would be fine?

Burke knew the esophagus was not connected to the heart, but the left upper portion of his chest felt tender as the coffee rushed in.