If I couldn't sleep could you sleep
Could you paint me better off
Could you sympathize with my needs
I know you think I need a lot

I started out clean but I'm jaded
Just phoning it in
Just breaking the skin

Can you help me I'm bent
I'm so scared that I'll never
Get put back together

You're breaking me in
And this is how we will end
With you and me bent.

«Bent", Matchbox 20

Upon walking out of House's door, I ached in loneliness. Standing on line for meds, I stared at the floor and made no eye contact hoping to put the incident far enough out of my mind to avoid crying. As was typical for me, what should have me basking in joy left me prematurely mourning its passing. Princeton was an hour and a half from New York by car and over two hours by train. In line, a spark of excitement overcame me as I imagined waiting excitedly for him to arrive at Penn Station. I'd talk nervous nonsense to him about its history and he'd indulge me, perhaps even enjoy it. We could share a bottle of wine over Chinese take-out and talk about whatever he wanted. We could retire to my bed, the main culprit for my sadness every night before falling asleep. Alas, the object of sadness that evening was to be my doomed romance with Gregory House, if romance it truly was. Madness.

"Goren," the pharmacist called, snapping me back into the moment. "Meds," he said. I went to the window, dumped the pills into my mouth and pushed them between my cheeks and gums while the pharmacist checked my name off the list. He handed me a cup for water. I filled it at a nearby fountain and used the water to wash the pills out of my mouth and into the cup. No point sleeping artificially that evening, I decided, if I could cry myself into exhaustion.

"Pathetic," I mumbled to myself as I put the cup into a bin and made my way to my room.

If there were higher powers, they were kind to me and House. We weren't found out at that point, weren't ordered to separate, weren't told that we didn't need each other for our conditions to improve. I doubted that sincerely, but I expected it would be said sooner or later. A long history with mental health professionals led me to expect preemptive decisions about what constituted my "best interest," decisions I would be required to accept unquestioningly and adhere to faithfully.

Pondering our separation, I walked back to my room, dejected. Well before lights-out I found myself laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. My obsession with House took a stronger immediate hold on me than I anticipated. More than anything else - getting better, being distracted from everything by work, reading a book - I wanted to be back in his room, in his arms, talking quietly or sleeping peacefully. Absurd, such romantic notions. No one fell in love as quickly as I. Surely House was back in his room hardly thinking of what happened between us, what possibilities lay ahead. What cause would he have to think of me, I wondered?

There was no one with whom I could speak about matters of the heart. In the best case scenario, I could talk to Eames, but my emotions weren't her responsibility. Better to suffer alone in agony and doubt than to consult anyone. They could never understand. Things were much easier for everyone else. Or so it seemed.

I was back in Penn Station waiting on House. I fiddled with my keys and paced, unable to even ponder sitting with such levels of anticipation. How long it'd been since we'd seen each other last was a mystery to me. His hand fell on my shoulder. I turned and he kissed me immediately. Remarkable was the rush, the euphoria, feeling light-headed. "Back to your place. Now," he urged, nudging me in the direction of the door.

I led him to a cab. All the way to my place, we pawed at each other. He might as well have sat on top of me. "I missed you," he whispered in my ear.

"We talk every night," I reminded him.

"Which isn't...this," he complained.

Before I knew it, the sun was up, and I'd spent the entire night imagining different courses our evening would take after that point in our conversation. In the mirror, my eyes were red and puffy.

To feel is remarkable. Even when it feels so good it hurts.

********************************************

Playtime with my new friend was everything I thought it would be. He was intense, passionate, and evidently as obsessive about providing a good time in bed as he was about his work. I chuckled while I considered wrapping him up and taking him home with me.

I missed unwinding in front of the TV at night. I couldn't imagine facing hours of lonely sleeplessness in my cell so I downed my sleeping pill without complaint each night. After my afternoon with Bobby, I was more keyed up than ususal but at least Amber and Kutner stayed out of the way while I waited for the Ambien to kick in. I drifted off to thoughts of Bobby's fingers on my thigh.

I woke four hours later, unbelievably pumped up. The excitement of seeing Bobby again made it impossible to sleep, but it was well before the time I could leave my room. For awhile, I tried to read, but it was no use. He was in my head and he was difficult to get out.

Only Stacy had ever seen me in such a state, sitting at the edge of the bed like a child on Christmas Eve. I went to the barred window and lit Bobby's half-smoked cigarette. "You take the other half," he'd encouraged me, smiling. I'd taken it willingly and kissed him before he left.

Bobby continued to occupy my thoughts as I stared out the window over a dimly lit lawn. I knew so much and so little about him. He was impossible to read and should've been harder to get close to, but whatever trait made it easy for me to tell him so much must have been mutual.

Bobby could easily become my new addiction. I spent a considerable amount of time thinking about places throughout the hospital where we could play later that day. That I wanted his sexual passion and intellectual challenge didn't surprise me, but his emotional intensity excited me in ways I wouldn't have anticipated.

I wondered what he'd be like to live with, whether it could ever work on a practical level. A ridiculous thing to consider this early in the game. At the rate we were going in shaking our hallucinations, the only place we'd ever both be living was Mayfield. But, still, to have met someone who might know me intrinsically. It was what I'd always wanted and the reason why love had been impossible to find.

Bobby was a godsend if such a thing existed. He was one of a kind. Best to hold off on telling him that until one of us got out of here. He had potential. I was determined to make the best of it, even if it ended when we left. I needed what was happening. Caring for someone else felt good, and Bobby was the only person who'd made me feel that way in a long time.