We were lying in bed. It was after midnight. You know that achy feeling you have when you first catch the flu--the feeling that even your hair might be sore? Yes, well, I felt that way on the inside. (Son of a bitch cardiac rotation.) I was completely drained, but wide fucking awake. I couldn’t lie still. I got up, got myself a glass of water, wandered into the living room, and curled up on the end of the couch, hugging my knees to my chest. That lasted all of three minutes before I commenced to pacing.
Traipsing through the apartment in the dark was doing little to help, and it wasn’t long before it woke the dozing boy.
I crawled back into bed, mostly because I didn’t have a good explanation for why I’d left in the first place. Then, because it was just about the only place in the apartment I hadn’t yet been, I slid on top of him and buried my face in his chest. He threw his tired, heavy arms over me and kissed my head. I’m certain this was as much a physical restraint intended to prevent further idiotic wandering as it was affection. (He is a warm and sweet smelling straight jacket. I am straight up crazy. We were made for each other.)
I was as close to sleep as I’d been all night when I whispered, “I love you.”
Shit, I thought, that wasn’t out loud, was it? I didn’t mean for that to be out loud.
But then, “I love you, too” was whispered into my hair.
Now, it's something he says all the time to that crazy girl he's dating. And she says it back. Out loud. And what they both mean but don't (usually) say is, "...even when you're pretty much insane."