It was a conflict of interests if she'd ever experienced one; she'd wake nearly every morning to at least one limb slung over and cutting off the circulation to something. And yet, he stubbornly refused every time she asked: a larger bed was unacceptable.
The colder islands came, and with them an appreciation for the lack of space between his heat and hers.
Life didn't used to revolve so closely to the who's and goings-on's sharing her sheets, but...well, she supposed that was life.
Some nights, it was warm and she felt inconvenienced.
Other nights, he was hurt and she would give anything for an uncomfortable summer night if it meant he could sleep beside her.
And then there were nights she never ventured to, ones where he never joined her again. Never got up in the middle of the night muttering about having to pee. Never scared himself by snoring too loudly. Never woke her up early again, asked if it was okay, told her she was too loud, that she smelled nice, kissed her sweaty face, brought her coffee, forgot the sugar.
"Sorry," he muttered into her hair, vaguely aware he'd kicked her. She stared at his matted black hair, wondering if she stayed awake, could she memorize every face he made before dawn broke.
She felt like crying, hoping she would never have to feel like she should have.
"You're fine.