You never sleep when she comes to visit.

You watch.

The steady rise and fall of her chest.

How she mutters between the hours of four and five.

It's too soft for you to tell what it is. But you're close.

You give her a half hearted shake.

"Are you awake?" you ask.

She isn't.

Then you whisper, "I love you."

She doesn't even stir.

You never say those words under a light.

You're afraid she will look past you and leave.

It's easier to say it in the dark.

Your heart twists painfully.

It's hope.

You hope she hears you anyway.

"Please stay."

At least you don't have to see how sorry she is.

You know she's sorry.

She is always sorry.

And you forgive her each time.

That is how desperate you are for her to know that she is more than her mistakes.

Maybe if you do it enough times,

maybe if you say it enough times,

she will finally listen to you.

When sunlight peeks through your curtains, you prepare yourself.

You try to squash the hope before she can.

And you're so busy with that that you didn't hear what she said.

She repeats, "I heard you."

You hold your breath. It's still too early.

"I love you."

Not yet.

"And I am staying."