she’s always dreamt of waking up on a lazy sunday and making breakfast in her own kitchen, the sunlight streaming in through the windows and lighting up her life. maybe there’d be a cat, or a dog napping somewhere close by. maybe there’d be someone in her bed, still sleeping. that one, that last one hurt a little bit because she could see his face, his skin glowing gold with the sun. there’d be plants and she’d check on them, rub behind her pets ear, while she was waiting for coffee to cook. she’d put on some music and sing along quietly as she made breakfast. maybe it’d be pancakes, maybe it’d be eggs and toast. and then maybe she’d bring it to bed or maybe he’d join her in the kitchen. maybe he’d kiss her cheek and hug her and maybe her heart would beat slower, her eyes would close and she’d melt into the warmth of having all that.

or maybe she’d stumble through the apartment in the rainy morning, still half asleep as she put on the water to make some coffee, then bring it back to her bed and drink it by herself. maybe that would’ve been okay, but she’s done that before and no amount of blankets could chase away the cold. no amount of telling herself it’s okay to be alone could overshadow the pure loneliness of being touch starved. no amount of self love could replace the memory of waking up next to him, arms around her.