It was just a few days after Coco's sickness had gone away that she noticed something weird about her father's behavior. He wasn't acting like himself. There was a sort of hesitance and worry in his eyes whenever he was looking at her.

He watched her more closely than the days before, rarely taking his eyes off of her no matter where she was. Whenever they talked-- which was another weird thing, since they did it a lot more often than they were doing now-- his voice was strained, not with rage but with carefulness, as if saying the wrong thing would make Coco sick again.

He'd been good at hiding it at first, but Coco noticed the changes quickly. It was hard to miss the stiffness of his shoulders or the forceful air of his joy. It was impossible not to hear how his voice shook when either her, Mamá, or any other family member talked to him. It wasn't an option to ignore the broken expression he sent her whenever their paths crossed, which was all the time.

And yesterday Coco could've sworn that whenever she looked behind her, there he was six feet away, avoiding her eyes when she whipped around at the sound of his footsteps and darting in another direction.

Coco knew she'd seen this type of behavior in him before. When Ernesto used to visit them and looked irritated about something, Papá would rush to him at the first sight of his glare and crossed arms. When Mamá had come down with a severe fever, the same one Coco had a few days before, Papá was there just like he'd done with her, playing his guitar and almost never letting go of Mamá's hand as he sat there.

But she'd never seen this behavior in him after she died.

At least until now.

He kept trailing behind her wherever she went. He kept asking her if she was okay, his voice shaking so much that it hurt Coco's heart. The only place he didn't follow her was her room, but she could hear the music of his guitar in his bedroom, a somber tune that she'd never heard him play, indicating that he was indeed waiting for her to come out so he could follow her again.

Coco really didn't want to fight or yell at him, but she hated seeing him worry over her when he didn't have to. She'd never seen him do this to her when she was younger, and she didn't like it. To be truthful, it was annoying. But he wasn't showing any sign of stopping.

One day later that week he followed Coco into her bedroom, breaking his own rule. Coco had closed the door to her bedroom, and she was staring out her open window, trying to let the feeling of the wind on her face, the warm sunlight, and the sound of people's voices from the city beyond drown out the feelings of indignation and irritability that threatened to push toward the front of her mind.

But a knock on the door broke through her quiet state in no time. As predicted, Papá's voice was heard as the noise died down. Coco let out a quiet huff as he opened the door, turning to face him and trying very hard to ignore the fact that he had the same worried expression in his eyes that he'd had for the last five days.

Coco crossed her arms while she stared at him, watching him walk closer to her. He stopped at least six feet away just like he did whenever he trailed her throughout the house.

He cleared his throat and fidgeted with his hands, the corners of his mouth in a worried frown.

"Are you okay, mija?"

"Sí, Papá." Coco tried her best not to roll her eyes as she turned back to the window.

"You're sure?"

Coco huffed and leaned on the windowsill, hoping that he couldn't see her glare the reflection. "Yes, Papá. I'm fine. You don't need to worry anymore."

There was no response, but in the window's reflection she could see her father's hand gripping his wrist and his eyes were full of tears.

Coco sighed without knowing she did, trying very hard not to turn her head in her father's direction.

"You still look a little sick, Coco," came Papá's voice after a few more minutes of silence that neither of them knew how to fill.

She could see him cringe in the window when she groaned. She rolled her eyes as she again turned to face him, spreading her hands out in an exasperated motion. "You don't need to worry about me anymore, Papá. I've gotten better by now."

"Coco--"

Coco glared at him, holding up her hand. He lowered his gaze and his head dipped to the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck, the tears that Coco had seen in his eyes earlier dripping down to the floor.

She pulled the curtains closed on her window and walked over to him, squeezing his hand and remembering the dark circles and disheartened look in his eyes from when she'd gotten sick years ago.

"Papá, please. You have to stop worrying. I'm fine now. And I've had worse illnesses before."

"I know. But what if you--" His voice caught for a second, then more tears fell.

Coco shook her head and sighed, walking behind him to her bed and sitting down on Julio's side, folding her hands and pulling her legs to her chest under them. "I can't die from getting sick anymore, and it won't happen again for a long time."

The bed creaked from added weight when Papá sat down on her side, a blank but broken expression on his face as he scooted closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders. Coco reached up and squeezed his hand.

"You don't need to worry about me, Papá, okay? I haven't been sick for four days."

Papá let out an airy sigh, not saying anything but pulling her closer to him, which told Coco what she needed to know. She rolled her eyes again.

He cleared his throat and released her, wringing his hands as he spoke. "I just don't like it when you're sick, mija. Especially not now, when I don't know how to take care of you."

Coco nodded and looked into his eyes, annoyance fading. She slipped her hand in his. "Just promise me you'll stop worrying."

"But--"

"Papá." She narrowed her eyes and raised her brow. "Please. At least try not to worry about me or follow me around anymore. Can you promise that?"

Papá looked down at their clasped hands, then back at her. After a few moments of staring, he grimmaced and nodded with a pained look. "Fine," he said, his voice hoarse as he stood up and shakily strode over to the door. He cast a cautious look over his shoulder at her as he opened it.

Coco nodded at him. "I'll be fine."

Papá sighed and exited, closing the door behind him and muttering something under his breath as he retreated downstairs.

Coco stayed sitting until she could no longer his footsteps on the other side of the door. Then she sighed, rolled her eyes, and walked back over to the window, opening it up and hearing the nearby sounds of music and shouting from outside.

She tried to ignore the sun's harsh light and memories that kept washing through her as she stared, letting the sights blur in her eyes and trying very hard to keep out the feelings of love and agitation that made her feel slightly weary as they mixed together in her mind and strangely lightheaded for a reason that she knew but wasn't ready to face just yet.