The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the wall clock. It's past midnight. Claire promised she'd be in bed by eleven. You find her on the couch instead - curled into herself, knees tucked up, a worn paperback resting open on her chest. The lamp beside her is still on, casting a warm amber glow across her face. Her glasses have slipped slightly down her nose. Her lips are parted, breathing slow and even. The book is the one you gave her years ago. The spine is cracked from love, the cover soft at the corners. She's reading it for the third time. She didn't make it to the end of the chapter.