It's early. The sun has only barely risen, but I'm up. I look out of my window and I watch the red light hit across the roads of this city. I didn't sleep well last night, but that's usual for me. I climb out from underneath my covers and stretch before slipping into some slacks and a blue shirt.

I go to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. My reflection is blurry, so I slide my glasses on to see more clearly. My hair is askew, but I don't even bother trying to fix it. I see a hint of darkness underneath my eyes. Lately, I haven't slept well at all; a few nights, I haven't slept a wink. I guess I just have a lot of thinking to do.

Thinking makes me hungry, or, at least that's what I tell myself. It gives me an excuse to go over to Hermione's flat to get a bit of breakfast.

I open the door to her flat, which is a door down from mine, and I step inside. Her flat is quite clean, with dusty rose blankets strewn across her couch and silver sparkling in her sink. I breathe in the smell that is Hermione.

I know which room is her bedroom, and I open the door quietly. It squeaks a bit, but she doesn't seem to mind. The form in the bed doesn't even flinch. With the utmost caution, I approach the bed, and smile to note that she has the pale pink covers pulled up over her head. A few golden brown strands of her hair escape from under it, wild and beautiful. Her left hand also lies exposed; the fingers are long and slender. Even the pieces of her that I can see are absolutely gorgeous.

I touch what I think is her shoulder. The blanket is warm from her body heat. I feel my own skin rise with goose bumps. I give her a little nudge, and she gives a slight groan of annoyance. "The alarm hasn't gone off yet. Let me sleep," she mutters.

"I need some eggs," I say; it's a pitiful excuse. "I'm really sorry to wake you up, but I was wondering if you can lend me some."

"Eggs? What do you need eggs for? It's so early," she mutters in a dazed manner. "It's too early to be asking me for eggs, Harry!" She mumbles something else and starts to laugh, squirming a bit so that she's entirely engulfed in her blanket.

I know it's too early for this. I really just want to crawl into bed with her and tell her to go back to sleep. I'd keep her warm. But instead I just sit on the edge of the bed and just barely tug the covers down from around her face so that I don't let in the cold. She blinks at me sleepily, trying to hide her eyes from the light. I can't help but to smile at her. "I'm sorry for waking you up. But I don't have anything left in my house to eat, and you've always got something," I explain. Then, with a grin, I add, "I'll make you some, too, if you want."

This gets a smile out of her. Smirking, I playfully pull at a curl of her hair before heading off the kitchen. I get out the eggs and the pan. I like the sound of the eggshells cracking and the hiss of yolks as they hit the hot pan. I watch the butter run across the skillet in a yellow pool, melting, spreading. The spatula grates as I run it across the bottom of the pan. It's kind of soothing, in a way, to take a moment of the hectic schedule of the day to just stand in Hermione's kitchen, stirring the eggs slowly, taking my time, feeling the heat from the pan on my hands.

Then I hear Hermione's alarm go off, a rude interruption, which reminds me that there is not time to take things slowly. Before I know it, she's standing in the doorway, looking a bit tousled and pleased to see me.

The eggs are finished. I leave them to sit for a moment on a cool burner and flick the button, turning down the temperature on the other. I slide myself up to take a seat on her counter, which I know she doesn't really like me to do, but she just smiles at me, as if to say it's alright.

"I really am sorry to have woken you up – but I don't have anything in my kitchen except for leftovers from dinner three nights ago," I tell her. "It wasn't very good three nights ago, and I doubt it'll be better now."

She smiles carelessly and joins me up on the counter, giving me a little smile that makes my heart jump. "It's okay. My alarm went off a few minutes ago. Losing five minutes sleep isn't going to kill me," she says. She gives me a look. "Did you even try going to Ron's flat?"

I wonder why she even asks, and laugh. "Of course not; I have to drag Ron with me to go buy food, or he'd never do it himself. I figure that if I'm down to my last bit of food, his shelves have been empty for a week, if not more."

"That would explain why he's been going out with a few of his work partners for the last few days for meals," she comments thoughtfully. "It's good that he's made friends at the Quidditch Supply Store, though; I was afraid that he wouldn't, and that he might be shy."

"Apparently not; in fact, he tells me that there's a young lady he's got an eye for," I say. Hermione looks interested at this.

"She works behind the counter, making sales, but turns out to be quite the Quidditch expert, and rather pretty, he says," I add on. Suddenly, I feel a bit awkward to talk about Ron's love life, and I note a sense of desperation beginning to nip at me. I lean back to stare at the ceiling.

Hermione doesn't notice, innocently enough. "Hopefully she's not another veela-type," she goes on, oblivious to the fact that Ron isn't the only boy with eyes for a special someone. "I should hope Ron has learned to avoid them by now."

Her words do surprise a smile from me, though. "The last one was a half-veela, wasn't she? I saw her once; she looked so pale and eerie, like a unicorn," I comment distantly. "And didn't she have a drinking problem? Sounds like a bad combination."

"Oh, didn't Ron tell you about that? There was a terrible incident, and she got quite intoxicated with pomegranate liquor, and they ended up at St. Mungo's. Needless to say, I think Ron figured out himself to get out of that relationship," she says. "Poor Ron."

I give a sympathetic smile for Ron, but I can't help thinking that I'd give anything to find love as easily as Ron has. I look at the ceiling, at its fine lines. "Poor Ron indeed," I add quietly.

There is a moment of silence. I can feel Hermione looking at me, her body so close to me. And yet, she is so far from me, so far from knowing how closely I hold her inside of myself.

"Let's get some eggs, shall we?" I chirp up suddenly, heading to the cabinet to get some plates, determined to not get myself down. Hermione busies herself with utensils in silence. We get seated at her little round table, and I stare at the heap of food on my plate.

I look at her across the table. Her hair falls into her eyes as she stabs into a chunk of scrambled egg. She looks so far away, and a deep pit of loneliness forms in the pit of my stomach. "Hermione, I have a somewhat serious question for you."

Cheerfully, she nods. Her head lifts, and I can see her face again. "Let's hear it. What seems to be the problem?" She skewers a second bit of scrambled egg, takes a bite.

"Do you think I should start dating again?" I ask her.

She pauses, looking up at me once, her brown eyes huge and blank. I can see nothing from them in that brief instant, for soon enough she looks down and swallows hard. "Do you think you should?" she says in a voice that doesn't seem to belong to her.

I feel sick all of the sudden. No, I don't think I should. But maybe I need that distraction to get my mind off of the fact that I love her. I push my eggs around on my plate, not knowing what to do with them, not knowing what to do with myself.

"I don't know," I say honestly; she doesn't know how deeply I mean that statement. "I'm kind of lonely," I add.

Hermione doesn't even look at me. She puts down her fork quietly, nibbling on her lip, wordless. What had I expected her to say? How could I have expected her to decide for me something that I can't decide on my own? Had I expected that her permission would make me feel better about trying to forget how much I love her?

She looks at me in a fleeting glance with her big brown eyes, so round and full of light. She looks as though she doesn't understand my reasoning. I want to laugh at myself, because it's stupid. To think that I could replace all she's been for me with a pointless romance is ridiculous. I know that I couldn't even substitute for her if I tried.

She doesn't have an answer, but she's already given me one. The answer is no.

I never should have brought it up, and I open my mouth to speak. "Maybe this isn't something you can understand. Maybe I should just ask Ron," I say, trying to drop the subject.

"Why? Because I'm – a girl?" she asks me.

"No – well, maybe." My response is halfway honest. It's not so much that she's a girl, but rather that she's the girl I'm in love with. She won't understand the problem because she is the problem.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, trying to maybe explain to her a piece of what I feel. I put down my fork. "Maybe it's not so much that I'm lonely, but – I've never had a good relationship, not ever, Hermione." I pause, meeting her eyes. Not ever, Hermione. "It makes a person – kind of itchy, and impatient," I add.

"If you're going to say you think it's your fault, it's not," she says reassuringly.

"No, no. I wasn't going to say that," I deny. But then I think about it. She certainly isn't the problem; the problem must be with me, since she doesn't love me in a more-than-best-friends sort of way. I want to scream out in frustration because maybe it is my fault.

I want – I want her to know what it's like, being in my skin, being alone.

"But I mean – haven't you ever just wanted to have somebody to hold you, Hermione?" I say calmly, meeting her gaze. I just want to enclose her in my arms, whisper in her ear, ask her, "Is this so bad?" But she just stares back at me.

I put my head in my hands, trying to cover my eyes. "I mean, not just someone who you can talk to, and laugh with, but haven't you wanted someone who will – someone who you can fall asleep with in bed, and wake up in the morning with, like it's the most normal thing in the world?" I ask her. "Haven't you wanted someone who will just kiss you, and not even question it? It would be real casual and all that."

Hermione doesn't say anything. She looks at me blankly, like she doesn't understand why I'm asking these things of her. I feel like I'm being confusing and dishonest with her. "I don't know what I'm talking about," I say, "so never mind."

"Okay," she says quietly. She takes a breath. "I mean, you can keep going if you want." I realize how long it's been since she's said anything.

She gives me a sweet look, and I soften and feel my face flush. More calmly, more honestly, I try to explain. "I want to – be in love, Hermione," I say slowly. Underneath, a part of me is trying to say something else.

"Not just to love someone, but be in love with them I've never felt that. And I'm getting old. I'm 23 and I've never been in love. People start getting married at this age. It's not that I'm unhappy, but that –" I pause, unsure of what it is that I am. I start again.

"I've been through a lot in my life, Hermione. Both of us have. And I sometimes feel like I've gotten the short end of the deal. I've seen and felt death, depression, fear, the greatest loss, but I've never been in love." Trying to lighten the mood, I add with a chuckle, "Doesn't that seem kind of unfair to you?"

She smiles back. "Yeah, it seems very unfair." Her eyes hold a touch of sadness.

"Do you think I'm being unreasonable, though?" I ask her. I look into those eyes, the eyes I knew ten years ago, the eyes that are a front to a mind that has sacrificed for me. I know that I ought to be grateful for her friendship alone; after all, she has given me so much already. I thought back to our years in school, when she did more than enough. She stepped up to fight, and was clever and broke rules and ran from Filch and did so many things that she never should have done, all for me.

Before she can even answer me, I interrupt. "Maybe I'm just really impatient," I say with a sigh. I look at the clock, which serves as my escape. It is ticking; there is no time for me to sit around, wallowing in my own self-pity, pushing so hard. "I'm going to be late for training, Hermione. Thank you for listening – and thanks for the eggs."

"Of course," she murmurs. I stand and take my plate to the kitchen, use a charm to set it washing on its own. There is not a place for simplicity in my life, be it washing the dishes on my own or waking up casually in the bed with Hermione. I go, and I set off down the hall, thinking.

I head down the stairs, which are winding. They catch the light in my southward spiral. I know I said that I wished for love to balance out the sadness that has been in my life, but I never thought that love could be that sadness. I enter into the street where a cool wind brushes my hot skin, and leave behind all my hopes.

I knock on her door, and it opens. Hermione smiles back at me. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun, the curls flowing down the back of her neck, and I think she looks particularly pretty. "Good evening," she says to me with mock solemnity.

I smirk. "Good evening to you, too. Aren't you going to let me in?" I ask her jokingly.

She puts her hands on her hips. "It depends on what you want from me. I really don't have much more food to give you, if that's what you want," she tells me.

I hold up my thick textbook, which is from the library, so it smells like dust and makes me want to sneeze. I can tell that Hermione's eyes light up when she sees it. "You need help?" she asks. I nod, and without hesitation, she lets me in.

She pours me a bit of coffee and directs me towards the couch. I sit on its soft cushions, and the scent of her wafts upwards to touch upon my senses. I open my own book on my lap, but then I see that there is a separate book lying open. I look at the cover; it reads, The Genetics of Wizardry. "Were you reading? I hope I didn't interrupt you," I call out.

She brings over a mug for me and places it in my hands. "Careful. It's hot," she warns me. "And, no, you didn't interrupt anything."

"Are you sure?" I ask, feeling somewhat guilty. But she shakes her head and sits down next to me as I sip the hot concoction. She pulls a blanket over her legs and sits close and asks me, "What seems to be the problem?"

"Shield spells," I mutter. "They pose a very big problem." I set down my coffee mug on the adjacent table and then point to several diagrams, which have no labels and seem to be made to confuse the reader.

"Oh, I know these. Hold on and let me look," she says, peeking at my book.

As she leans close, I can smell her again, her shampoo and her skin and her aura. I can feel the heat of her face as it gets pink. Her long, slender fingers brush the pages, and the movement of her arm causes her wide-necked sweater to slip off one shoulder. The flesh is bare. I don't understand how a woman with such radiating sexuality would want to wear big sweaters and stay home to study during the nights. I don't understand how she can hide under her thick sweater, avoiding boys.

I ask her suddenly, "Why aren't you dating, Hermione?"

"I don't have time, Harry," she says, as though it's completely obvious. "I have a lot of schoolwork to do. And, besides, if I dated, I wouldn't be able to help you with your work at night."

I stretch out my legs and laugh at the sick irony of it. Hermione doesn't date because she wants to be a study partner with her best friend, who's in love with her. It's absolutely brilliant.

I tilt my head to look at her better. I feel like I've been holding her back, interrupting her reading time, keeping her inside these four walls so she can help me. The guilt from our morning talk comes back. And I think with a bit of sadness that, even if I can't be the one she loves, she ought to find someone that she really cares about. "You should date, though," I say painfully. To ease my own hurt, I put an arm around her shoulders.

"Why?" she questions me, just on a whim.

Even with my arm so close, I feel so far off. It's because I want her to be happy with someone. I know that her friendship alone brings a smile to my face; I want her to have that same smile. But I wish these things from a distant place, because I know I am not a part of these dreams I have for her, for my beautiful Hermione.

She looks at me inquisitively, waiting for an answer. My real reasons aren't ones that I can say aloud. I think of the first response that comes to mind. "Well, you're pretty," I say casually. "You could get a lot of guys."

Suddenly she goes incredibly pink, and I can see and feel the rise in temperature in her face. Amused, I smile at her, which, somehow, only makes her go even pinker.

"You really think so?" she whispers. My smile grows bigger to hear her ask me such a question, as though she doesn't know the answer to that.

"Of course I think so," I tell her, wanting to see her smile again, wanting her to know the truth. My fingers touch the curl at the back of her neck. "You're beautiful."

I didn't think that she could get any pinker, but she does. She gives me a sideways glance, embarrassed, and she gives out a little giggle. It's absolutely adorable of her, and I feel very warm inside of my stomach. Her hair winds its way around my fingertips, and she's so close in the nook my arm, and I just told her how beautiful she is, and it feels so incredibly perfect.

But – she doesn't love me. The feeling vanishes from the pit of my stomach, and my face falls to realize that, as perfect as it all seems, we're still only friends who share sweet compliments. And I'm the one trying to convince her to date.

She looks at me and stops laughing, coughs a bit. There is an awkward second of silence. "Well, I mean – it takes a lot more to get a guy than looks, Harry," she says.

I shrug, trying to go back to my argument. "Oh, sure, but you've got plenty going for you, Hermione."

I look away, not wanting to see her smile and giggle again, not wanting her blushing cheeks to remind me that I'm the one who wants to date her. "Besides, Hermione, I think it'd make you happier," I add in a quiet voice. That's the real truth for her. That's me being honest and not hiding behind my faux reasoning. I pull away from her hair, which tickles the pads of my fingers, knowing that I can't pretend that we're in love with each other. I tighten my grip on my book.

I take a deep breath, having come to my resolution, and I try to lighten the mood. "It would be fun. I'm sure there's a lot of guys out there who would be just perfect for you, who you could really click with."

Hermione pauses, seeming to think about this, and gives me a little smile. "You seem to think it'll do me real good, Harry. But I told you, I'm – happy where I am right now. What could make me happier?"

"I bet there are lots of those smart-types out there, with big glasses and backpacks as big as yours – well, maybe not quite as big," I say. "You could talk with a guy like that for hours all about The History of Hogwarts, and stay up all night studying for your university classes" It hurts to say it, but it also does make me laugh.

Hermione looks at me as though I've grown a second head. I chuckle. "Or," I add, just to vex her, "you could stay up all night – 'studying.'"

"I think I would rather spend my time I actually studying, Harry!" she cries out, completely shocked. "It would be horrible to show up to class, not being prepared for a lecture, and then having to explain how I didn't prepare because I was kissing someone all night long – Oh, I don't even want to think about it."

"All right, then. We won't think about it," I say with a nod. Now I've started to think about Hermione snogging with some intellect all night, and the thought makes me uncomfortable. "Aren't you supposed to be helping me actually study, anyway?" I say to cover up.

"Um – we were talking about shield spells," she says with a nod. And as we delve into the books, I hide again.

"It's about time for a drink," says a voice. I look up from the newspaper. Into my flat waltzes Ron, pulling off his uniform shirt from his work at the Quidditch Supply Store. Underneath it is his favorite white undershirt, which he's worn one time too many, but that's just Ron. He tosses his uniform shirt onto my dining room table and plops down on the couch next to me.

"Well, if you turn on the faucet, I've got some water," I respond with a chuckle. "That's all the drink you're going to be getting here!"

"Well, aren't you a stinker? You ruined my fun. But I'll settle with what I've got," he says, getting up once more to get himself a glass. "Do you want some?"

I flap my hand at him and close the paper. "I'm alright," I say with a shrug. "Did you have a good day?"

Ron is in the middle of sipping his glass; he tries to give a bit of a nod. "Indeed I did, Mr. Potter," he says as he seats himself on the couch next to me once again. "We just got a new order of brooms in today, and the store was flooded! And I was an excellent salesman." He clears his throat. "'Sir, would you like me to wrap this up for you?'" he says in a kind voice, imitating himself. "'Madam, if you're looking to buy for your son, I think any boy would love a new broomstick!'"

Ron laughs, and so do I. The wonderful thing about Ron is that he can perk up a person, even when they're lost in their depressing thoughts. He's just got irresistible charisma. "Perhaps I'll even get a raise. Then maybe I can afford to start taking that fox who works with me out on a date," he adds with a dry chuckle.

"You haven't asked her out yet?" I ask him. "I thought you were going to do it soon!"

"I would, but I'm telling you that I haven't got any money," Ron whines.

"I could lend you some," I suggest quietly, knowing that Ron is sensitive about that sort of thing, but Ron shakes his head.

"No, no. If I'm going to take her out, it's going to be with my own money," he says nobly. Another wonderful thing about Ron is his pride. "Don't worry about me too much. It really won't be long until I've saved up enough!"

Suddenly, Ron gives a knowing smile. "Besides, you needn't waste your time waiting for my love life to roll around. You've got enough to worry about with 'Mione going out on a date."

My heart stops dead in its tracks. "You're joking me, Ron," I say in a low voice.

"I swear I'm not. You can't tell her I told you, though, because I promised not to breathe a word about it," Ron says. His voice gets more serious. "But I figured that I ought to tell you. I know how you feel about her."

I give a small nod. So, she took my advice to heart. The idea pains me, and I selfishly wish that I hadn't encouraged her. "When is she going on a date?" I ask solemnly.

"Actually, I think it's tonight," Ron says, "but I don't think she's gone yet." He paused. "Are you going to go stop her and sweep her off her feet, Prince Charming?"

"Maybe," I say, getting up, not really sure why I'm going over there, except to perhaps wish her a bitter word of good luck. "I'll probably be back soon, though, Ron."

Ron shakes his head at me. "Don't count on me being here when you bring your newly-won princess back to the castle," jokes Ron. "It really is about time for a drink. If you need me, I'll be at the corner bar." He raises his glass to me as I head for the door. "Hey, Harry? I just was wondering – well, Hermione said that you told her that you thought she should date. Is that so?"

"I suppose that is so, Ron," I add, looking back at him.

Ron chuckles. "Why the hell did you do that?"

Only Ron can make me laugh at such a dire circumstance. "Oh, sod off," I mutter at him, and I close the door.

Within two steps I am at the door to Hermione's flat. I stand there, staring at the number, at the black shapes. Why is she doing this? Is it all because of me? Who is she going with? How does she know him? Where is she going? Is she going to forget about me if she starts dating him? I open the door with determination.

I see Hermione's bedroom door is shut, and I hear a bit of hustling and bustling. I go and knock lightly. "Hermione, are you in there?" I call in before I can second-guess myself.

"Harry, I'm getting dressed. You're going to have to wait," she replies. The sound of her voice is muffled due to the wood door between us, but she sounds anxious.

"Well, will you be long? It shouldn't take this long for you to get dressed." Now I'm getting nervous about talking to her, about seeing her all dressed up, ready to go out for a date. What if I can't handle it? I go to sit down, but I know that I won't sit still for long, so I walk right back to her door.

She opens it so hurriedly that she nearly smacks me in the face with it. Startled out of my gloomy state, I give her a surprised sort of smile.

"Would you let me get dressed, please, Harry? I'm going to be late," she cries. She halfway ushers me into the room. Clumsy, and feeling out of place, I sit on her bed, watching her as she poses in front of the mirror, smoothing out her shirt and tugging at the corners of her skirt. She does look beautiful, and really nervous.

"I'm shocked that I'm the last to hear this news," I murmur, trying to keep my cool as I lean back and prop myself up with one elbow. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you have a date tonight."

"So, Ron must have told you," she says with obvious disappointment. "I told him not to say anything, but I guess he couldn't keep his mouth shut."

The scowl on her face is so intense; I think Ron would have been proud to annoy her so, and I try to muffle a smile. "Well, you didn't tell me, so I had to find out from somebody," I say. "Why didn't you want me to know?" I see her face, her eyes wide and round, reflecting in my direction in the mirror. My smile suddenly fades when I see the real look of terror lodged there.

"Because I knew you'd come in," she begins with a deep sigh, "and you would be asking me about this – this date. And – I knew you'd be asking about who the guy is, and if he's a smart type like you said – and you would take all the credit for having encouraged me into it." Her hands visibly shake as she tries to pin up strands of her hair on top of her head. But she's having such a hard time with it. "And you –"

She stops, frustrated with herself. I suddenly feel my face go long. I realize that Hermione is hiding, hiding behind smoothed hair and a brightly colored shirt, hiding like all the girls I used to date. I look at her, trying to do up her hair in a way that isn't like her at all, trying to impress a stranger when she's already impressed me so much. The thought makes me so incredibly sad.

In this moment, I realize that I can't steer Hermione into a path of happiness. I was careless to think that Hermione's dating would please her; in fact, it gives me a little bit of hope to realize that she really does prefer to spend her nights poring over books with me, her old friend.

A bead of a teardrop forms at the corner of her eye. I catch my breath, not wanting to see that droplet fall. She breathes, "These pins – they don't work. My hair's too thick for them —"

I will not let that teardrop spill over. Before I realize what I've done, I'm standing behind her, my hands combing through the part of her hair that cascades over her shoulders. "Just leave it down, Hermione. And don't cry, please, don't." I feel her take a deep breath. I add with feeling, "Your hair looks fine down."

Looking at her reflection, I watch that teardrop teeter, then fall across her rosy cheek. Apologetically, I whisper, "I didn't mean to upset you."

Her make-up runs off of her, like it ought to. She sniffles and her nose goes all red, and I feel like I've swallowed a brick. But I keep on stroking her hair, letting my fingers run through it, in it, as though I can make it up to her. I'm sorry that I scared her. I'm sorry that I pressured her. I'm sorry that I thought I could decide this for her.

"Hermione," I say. "You don't have to go if you don't want to."

She shakes her head. "But, Harry —"

I don't want to hear it. I turn her around so I can look at her straight and tell it to her honestly. "Hermione, listen to me. Don't feel pressured to go on a date just because I said so. If you say you're happy how things are, then don't go out." I take a deep breath, glad that I've said it. "I don't want you to be upset," I add finally, gripping her arm.

"He's a nice guy, though," Hermione protests weakly, though I know she doesn't mean it really. "And – he does have big glasses." We smile at each other.

"Your call," I tell her. Just to let her know that I approve of whatever choice she makes, I give her a quick kiss on the forehead. I make sure it's not too long of a kiss to make her uncomfortable or anything like that. I turn to leave, fully knowing that if she is going to go on this date, she really is going to need to get ready quickly.

"Harry?" I hear her say. I turn from the doorway.

I see her take a deep breath. "Harry, do you mind if I change out of these clothes and come over to your flat instead, and I can make you soup –" She takes a moment to swallow and start again. "I mean, I think it would be better if I didn't go and stayed put instead."

I can see the relief written over her face. "If you come over, I can make some soup for you. It'll make you feel better," I tell her. I feel satisfied that she's made the right choice for herself; hopefully that is what will make her truly happy.

I see a glint of silver amidst her curls. "And – you still have a pin in your hair, over on the right side." She turns to look in the mirror, to loose it, to let her hair be as wild as it truly is. With that last image in my head, I close the door behind me, hoping that I have some carrots and broth to make a steaming bowl for her.