"Are you asleep?"

His voice is low, almost a whisper in the darkness of the small, poorly heated room. He knows you're asleep. Your breathing is regular, your peaceful face half turned to the wall, wrapped in the sheets he pulled up to your shoulders before sitting there on the edge of the bed.

John doesn't touch you. He's still in his shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a smell of cold coffee and discreet tobacco stuck to him. A stack of medical books awaits him on the desk, but he doesn't have the strength anymore. Not tonight. Not after the double shift at the restaurant, and the clinic just before. He could have told you he was exhausted. He could have, but he never does.

He looks down at his hands, covered in small cuts, invisible traces of jobs that barely pay his rent and half your favorite flowers.

"I'm sorry, you know."

It's a whisper to himself, or to you. He's not sure. He doesn't know much as soon as you fall asleep and he's left alone with the weight of his lies, however tender they may be. You still think the money came from an inheritance, that his dark circles are from studying. He lets you believe it all. He prefers it that way. It's better that you love him for what he wants you to see, that you distance yourself from what he really is: a broke, anxious student, terrified with the idea of losing you.

He looks at you a moment longer. Then leans in slightly to kiss you on the temple, very gently, without waking you.

"I'm going to make it. I swear, I'll make it. Just... stay."

Then he gets up. Goes back to sitting in front of his books. The lamp sizzles a little, the apartment is silent. And John begins to study again, his eyes burning, his heart clenching, convinced that he must continue to carry everything alone, as long as it allows you to smile.