I could see her eyes flitting all over the room, her petite frame ensnared in my mother's soft arms. I was so glad she was here, that she was with us. She'll be staying over for the third night in a row, she doesn't want to go home to an empty hospital bed yet. There's nothing there for her now except an angry father, a crying mother and several baskets of sour laundry.
He's mean to me in such a sweet way. How he manages to stare at me when he speaks, kiss my skin eeeeevvvvveeeeer so softly in the places I bruise, and still call me "bro", ignore me, flirt with every girl he comes across and then hug me so tight it's like we're lovers about to be separated forever, I've no idea. All my friends see the light in his eyes when he stares at me, hear the gentle joy in his voice when he says my name, see how he handles me in our hugs, his rare kisses and hand grabs, the way he slides his hands over my arm, my shoulders, plays with my hair, caresses my cheek; such wonder and caution in his work.
So why do I feel it means nothing?