There are things I could say to make it better, I'm sure, but he's made a game out of this.

I've laid on this couch for three nights. Typically, at night, a person sleeps.

We used to sleep at night.

But it's seriously different right now.

Sometimes he sleeps, sometimes he watches me.

Sometimes I think he's going to speak and I raise myself just a little, waiting for his words, but nothing comes and I settle once again, waiting for the moment to make itself clear.

Sometimes I try to sleep, sometimes I feign sleep, sometimes I act like I don't care if he's watching me.

Sometimes I stare back.

Sometimes I wonder if things will ever be the same between us, or if I should look for another place to live.

I have a place to live though, and he made me move there.

If he wants to break up, he can get out. He made me move.


Can't he see that I'm sleeping on a damn couch for him? That I'm sticking.

And I'm sure he's all pouty, boo-hoo, she only cares about my hand, blah blah blah, but that's not the case.

I just want to know that his hand is okay, so he can be Preston Burke or whatever, and we can keep going like we were.

But then I had to go and tell the chief.

I can't even say I regret it, because I don't. It was so much to keep inside, and I just couldn't do it anymore. And there was blood everywhere, and I freaked out.

Yeah, I know.

I don't freak out, but I freaked out.

Of course, if he hadn't of been down my throat the entire time, I probably wouldn't have freaked out, so this whole thing is as much his fault as if it were mine.

Thus the dilemma of speaking.

Neither one of us is willing, or going to admit that we're wrong.

So we've resorted to silent treatment and staring contests, and we're both way too competitive to give into the other.

I've gone over it a million times. How I could say something and not lose.

If there is anything I could say to him, to make him so stunned, if there's anything I can do to him to make him realize that I really am sticking, and that I'm really concerned, not just about his hand, but him as a person.

He's my person.

As frustrating and irritating as he is right now, he's my person.

He should know that.

I turn to him, the lamp at my feet illuminating the room just enough that I can see that his eyes are closed and he seems to be asleep, his right hand tucked under his head, and I trail my eyes down his chest and I see the rhythmic rise and fall that would indicate that my assumptions are right.

I can't lose this if he's asleep when I talk to him.

I want to kick myself for even considering the idea of it, but there are things that need to be said between us. Things that I'll never bring myself to say to him until he actually speaks.

But I feel like I need to say something to him, and I need to say it to him now.

I need him to know that I care about him, or whatever.

Not just his hand, not whether or not he can be a surgeon anymore, not whether or not he's still mad at me for going to the chief.

I just need to know if he still loves me.

It comes out a little bit louder than I want it to, "We're not over, are we?" I don't feel myself speak the words, but I hear them.

I'm startled a bit when I hear him respond.

"No, we're not."

I turn to face him, slightly surprised.

I was sure he was sleeping.


"I didn't say anything." I mutter through the darkness, slightly put off at him for playing like he was.

"I didn't hear anything." He assures me.

I roll away from him, smile, and try to get some meager amount of sleep before rounds in the morning.

The game is still on.

But no matter who wins, I'll still have the prize.