His quarters lit only by the ruddy glow of his firepot, he stares into my eyes.
Tonight he opened one of his mother's emails; one of twenty-seven he had neglected to open…before she died.
He flicked off his console; in silence dressed to sleep; in silence came to bed. Tonight he turns me to him, taking my hands and staring deeply into my eyes.
Oh, those eyes.
"My thoughts are filled with clichés…" He whispers.
"It's okay."
"... I still…she…"
"The feelings are still there, even when someone you love is gone."
"Indeed."
"She loved you, too."
"I know."