She was curled into me — the black ball of doom.

Velvet. Heavy. Watching.

As if she alone could hold the sweat back from my brow with the sheer weight of her judgement.

I’d woken up sticky, nauseous, annoyed at my own skin.

The kind of night where your body feels haunted by its own history.

But Lacey didn’t move. She just tightened. A double-pawed spell of “you’re not going anywhere, Mum.”

And then — the raspberries.

An entire punnet, eaten in silence at 1AM.

Not because I was all that hungry, but because they were there. Fuck the season ending soon.

And I am nothing if not powered by fruit and defiance.

She was licking herself like she was the sweaty one.

As if the midnight air had wronged her personally.

This, of course, occurred immediately after her gourmet snack of Ziwi Peak fish.

Because nothing says shared suffering like artisanal mackerel breath and a well-timed flop on my chest.

I’m still awake.

Still sweaty.

Still fighting to get out of my own skin.

But I’m here. Garfield has me. Weighted down.

Moist… but thriving.

Both of us.

Even if only one of us smells like fish.