Spencer
I wake up around 7am.
Blythe breathes softly beside me, facing away, laying on her arm. We've separated from the last time we woke up together.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. It feels too dark, too heavy. I sit on the edge of my bed, stretching before standing, and pull the curtain away from the window. One glimpse outside and I can see the overcast. My room doesn't illuminate all that much, just enough to convert navy to cobalt. I don't despise rainy days.
I make my way back into bed, placing a hand on the curve of Blythe's waist. I bury my nose in her curls, closing my eyes as I inhale, opening them as I exhale. On the inside of her wrist I notice bruises in the shape of fingerprints, her skin marred by my hands. They look like stains as if they can be wiped
