𝐿ately, Gregory had been tossing and turning in bed. You'd be sleeping peacefully when you'd wake up to the sound of his pained groans or movements. You asked more than once what was wrong, if he was in pain, but he'd shake his head and tell you to go back to sleep. And you'd try, until you heard him groan again, trying to find a position that wouldn't cause him constant discomfort or pain.

You always told him, you scolded him when you saw him hunched over in his office or overexerting himself during the last move, lifting incredibly heavy boxes. When you offered your help, he'd look at you as if you'd kicked his mother, and tell you he could do it alone. He could, but at what cost? His overexertion was now taking its toll.

Typical Gregory. He silently endures the consequences, never asks for help.

Perhaps it was because he was older than you, much older, and his body couldn't keep up anymore. He was a little embarrassed, especially seeing your pitiful face when you heard him groan in pain or massage his lower back, something he tried to hide when he caught you watching.

— “Fuck…” — you heard him swear from the bathroom, and you went over to see what was wrong.

He had dropped his toothbrush, and he was staring at it there on the floor as if it might float away if he stared at it long enough.

— “Wanna pick it up?” — you asked, challenging him, wanting him to finally admit that something was wrong.

— “I was about to do just that…” — he said, his hand resting on the marble sink, tapping it with his fingers as if planning his next move. — “You just gonna stand there?”

You just raised your eyebrows, waiting. He sighed and tried to lean forward, and halfway there, he twisted and straightened up, immediately putting his hand on his hip.

— “Shit! Fine...” — he grunted. — “I think… there’s something wrong with my damn back… can you pick it up for me, hon?”