She looks at me concernedly, but I refuse to yield. I will not tell her, I must not tell her. It would only hurt her more than she has already been hurt, I convince myself, and she does not deserve that. I remain silent.

"I miss you" she sighs, changing the subject painfully. I nod.

"I miss you more than words can say" I answer calmly. Never have I been the poetic sort, or even one to whom the right words come easily, especially in difficult situations such as this, but there is no other way to describe the anguish I am going through, being away from Michelle.

An inmate in the wing I am living in- my wing of the prison- is currently going through withdrawal from one of the many drugs he so frequently abused. It is crack, this time, to my knowledge. Often, to myself, I compare it to the way I feel about being without Michelle. Michelle-withdrawal.

"I brought you a book" she offers, sliding a tattered paperback through the small flap covering an opening. I reach in to take it, and our hands meet. I hold hers firmly, rejoicing for the feel of her skin against mine, and for the first time in a week I feel alive. I let me be myself, and our meeting is no longer awkward. I hold her hand until a guard walks past, growling.

"Hands off, Tony."

I obey immediately. A flicker of fear passes across my face. I know what consequences there are for anyone who disobeys the Rules, and I know what the guards will do to me later, if they feel I have been misbehaving. Michelle catches the expression, but I say nothing and she does not press.

I look down at the book. The cover, barely readable, proclaims 'The Power of One'. Upon opening the first page, I see Michelle's name, scrawled in loopy writing, and I realize that this is her book. It is well-used, she must have read it many times.

"Thanks, Michelle." I say, and I smile at her for the first time. I am trying to convey how much I love her, how much I appreciate her gesture, how everything will be alright. She sees it, and she understands.

"I think you'll like it." she smiles back through her tears, "I've read it more times than I can count."

"I can tell!" I exclaim, "It looks as though you've read it more times than Jack has broken protocol!"

It is a lame joke, a last furtive attempt to bring humour to our conversation, but she laughs anyway. I love her laugh. The sound of it, the way her mouth twists so perfectly, the way her eyes twinkle so animatedly…