You are a sound sleeper. Nothing can wake you, and it’s one of the many things I love about you.
You smile when you sleep. I wondered sometimes — hoped, really — that that smile has something to do with me.
You also cry in your sleep. When this happens, I put my arms around you and hold on tight, wishing that even in your slumber, you can feel that I am always, always here, for you.

You once called out my name. I responded. I think you heard me because you smiled and said it again. It was that moment I knew that you loved me.

You told me once you had an episode of sleep-walking.
You remembered waking up in front of your opened refrigerator, holding an egg for some weird reason.
You dropped the egg and ended up cleaning it at 3:57 AM.
You remembered the exact time because that was the moment you remembered me.

How I cried in my sleep when we watch a sad movie before going to bed.
How I smiled in my sleep and you said it was because I was dreaming of you. (I was.)
How I was a sound sleeper, and because you weren’t home that night of the fire, no one woke me up.

I wish I can tell you that I am okay now.
I wish I can make you know that I don’t blame you.
I wish you can remember that time you were sleep-walking, you were going to make breakfast for us.

But you woke up.
While I remain, forever asleep, and forever awake.

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