You're not sure how you got to the graveyard. You're not sure when your vision lost focus, when you drifted away. These days it's been happening far more often than it ever has, and you're not sure when it started to be a daily occurrence. You're not sure how you came to be five or six blocks away from there, heading back to your apartment, covered in injuries you basically let happen before even reaching for the stake. And you know you could've fought harder, but the adrenaline always wears off too soon, and the bruises are the only thing keeping you tied down when it does. So you let it happen. Sometimes you wish the vampires would kill you. Maybe it would be easier on everyone if it wasn't technically your fault.
When you get home, she's on the phone. You think she's calling Willow, talking about some demon cult, but you're not sure and you're not really listening. She kisses you on the cheek after you've taken off your boots, avoiding the bruise just above your cheekbone, not looking like she particularly noticed it was there. You smile a little at her, but you're not entirely sure if the corners of your mouth actually raise. You almost think you'd like her to ask about it all. The bruises, the cuts, your fingers not quite bending right anymore because you grip your stake so hard, just to remember that you're holding it at all. But you know she won't. Maybe it's because she doesn't know how, maybe it's because she doesn't notice, maybe because it's par for the course with patrol on a Hellmouth. You don't know, and you don't ask.
Once she's done with her phone call, she asks you if you want to order a pizza. You say "sure, that sounds good," again with the small not-quite-real smile. You don't think you really want her to know about it all. You don't think you could say it to her, even if you did want her to. You don't think you could say that you think something's wrong. That something's wrong with you.
In bed that night, you stare at the ceiling for what feels like days. It's not an interesting ceiling, plain boring beige and the paint's chipped in the most expected of places, but you find you do this every night nonetheless. Eventually, after seven days, or ten minutes, or three hours, your eyes close. You don't dream. You haven't dreamed in a long time.