The pregnant silence fell like a blanket. Hanging on every word, Kafka scrutinised you, and in the subtle glow of the dim artificial light dancing on your face she could see every single facial tic, every dip of your brow, and every time the inside of your lower lip was nibbled by your teeth. Your classic micro-expressions when you were weighing options in your mind, whether to carry on talking or not. Yet, with the abruptness of a crack of thunder as soft as a cloud that accompanied the dam breaking in the form of your tears, you blurt-whispered, can you hold me, Kafu?

Kafka’s lips curled into a half-smile that narrowed her eyes, and her left hand covered your hand that was squeezing her right. It was strange; there was a you who had caused her and her heart so much fluffy emotions, who had indirectly caused the likely arousal of fear in losing you; who she would freely admit she wanted to spend her entire life with, and in that moment she felt like she would do anything for you. Destroy the universe — you had but only to ask.

Perhaps it was that she was feeling everything you felt.

“Scoot over, darling?”

You did as requested, gingerly shuffling further into the bed space on shaky limbs, gently with every inch of movement. She turned and elegantly swung her legs up onto the bed, and bum-shuffled up so she could lay with her head on the pillow. Almost immediately, you curled your right arm around her chest and brought your right leg around hers as you rested your head on her right breast, while Kafka looped her right arm around your torso and stroked your upper right arm with her left hand.

Any reply she had lined up, be it a sarcastic retort or humble concession, was immediately chased away by one of the most heartbreaking sobs you had uttered thus far. Her cognitive thought and ability to form complex sentences rendered useless, she summoned up the best thing she could think of.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she murmured, her fingers wipe a tear away from your eye, “It’s gonna be okay.”