Alessia
"Don't worry," I say nonchalantly and smile, looking up at the ceiling and playing with my raised legs, "I told you, I feel amazing. I slept like twenty hours."
"That's... a good thing, I guess," he replies, but he sounds bad. Really, really bad. His voice is a hoarse, worn, sad whisper. And then I remember that he's not feeling fantastic, like me. He doesn't spend his nights well. I’m such an ïdiot.
"Are you feeling okay?" I ask, my enthusiasm waning until I'm tense with worry and I sit up in bed, twisting my pajama pants.
"Yeah. Uh... well, not really. No. I don't think I am. There's a lot of blood, and everything is moving, but I'm used to it... I'm so used to it that it doesn't matter."
"Blood?" I repeat, my voice sounding too loud and panicked, because I can't imagine a
