The next time I wake up, Ezra is no longer beside me. I hear noises downstairs and the light is bright in the room, so I must have slept in, but I feel exhausted. The feeling of the dream and my sorrow still sit along my bones, weighing me down. I want to close my eyes and try to find sleep again, just like I did for so many weeks after May died. The reprieve from those feelings is over and they’ve clearly circled back.

If it weren’t for Ezra, I’d give in. Instead, I’m going to use him as a distraction. I push the covers off me and slowly sit up. Just one step at a time, I tell myself. If I got free from it before, I can do it again—especially here. I put a hand to my chest; it aches as though the virtual hole my sister left is real and is now pulsing with pain. I inhale deeply and try to breathe it away. All because of one goddamn dream, I think to myself.

I get dressed, each movement slow and deliberate, the choice of clothing laborious. I even put some makeup on to cover the dark circles under my eyes and even out my skin tone. When I’m done, I look much better on the outside than I feel on the inside.

The smell of bacon reaches me as I head down the stairs, which is a surprise, considering I didn’t have any in the fridge as of last night. A plate of bacon sits on the table along with some toast and two mugs of coffee. Ezra stands at the stove and is just sliding some eggs out of the frying pan when I arrive.

“Good morning,” he says in his typically cheery way. “Come sit down and have some breakfast.” He brings the eggs to the table and pulls out a chair.

I plop down in it. “I’m confused.” I point at the eggs and bacon.

He sits down across from me. “I packed them along with the dinner food.”

A laugh of surprise escapes me. “Well, that was a bit presumptuous, wasn’t it?”

“Can you really say that, considering I’m sitting at your table the next morning?” I roll my eyes at him. “I think the packing of bacon and eggs could be called more optimistic than presumptuous.”

I can’t help but smile. “Fine, we’ll call them optimistic bacon and eggs, then.”

He pushes one of the mugs of coffee toward me. “I don’t know how you take it, so I just left it black. I haven’t learned your adult ways since we left off in childhood.”

I gratefully wrap my hand around the mug. “I like it black.”

“Aw, just like your personality,” he jokes, and once again I can’t help but laugh. He’s literally clearing away the heaviness just by being here.

I hold up the mug in a small salute. “Touché, my friend.”