Her small fingers are pale as they tap against the steel edge of the table. You had bought her orange juice, her favorite, and she accepted it with a soft smile, cupping it in her hands, but she still sets it down gently on the corner of the table and leaves it untouched.
You talk and laugh with her, ignoring the odd looks you get from other coffee shop customers, smiling at the easy banter that falls off of your tongues, as light and friendly as it had always been (nothing at all had changed, nothing at all) You were glad for the thousandth time that she was here, safe with you.
She looks very small, and very pale, and very cold even though it’s late in April, and already springtime warm. You realize that she always seems cold lately, and that makes you kind of sad. You decide to buy her a nice scarf, or a pair of mittens to wear as you pay the bill and walk out of the shop. She flits out of the door behind you like a wisp, glancing forlornly behind her at the orange juice left on the table. The bell jingles on your way out.
* * *
When the two of you arrive at your house, you brush past your father and hurry to your bedroom. You try to ignore the stains on your father’s unkempt shirt the strained, worried heaviness in his eyes and they follow the two of you up the stairs.
You pull out the gaming console she bought you for your tenth birthday what feels like centuries ago and slide in MarioKart. She grabs a controller and slips in next to you at the edge of your bed, settling into the crook of your shoulder like a puzzle piece. You let her be Yoshi, both of your favorite character, and even though you swear you aren’t going easy she wins ever single round.
She is still so cold and fragile as she giggles at the video game, and you wish she could just warm up again.
* * *
Later while she sleeps, in the low hanging dimness, you hesitantly open your phone and check you messages, afraid and resigned to what you might find. The frigid blue-white glow of the phone highlights her peaceful face from across the bed and makes her look young and soft.
You stomach sinks as you glance at the screen. You have enough voice-mails and texts to make you want to scream. You open a few texts, unsurprised at the message's content and weary of the close, hawkish attention people had been heaping onto you lately.
"We're very worried." "Please text back!" "We know you're still upset-" "-it's not helping to dwell on it-"
You snap your phone shut tight and flop onto the bed where she's wrapped in a cocoon of quilts, and fall asleep staring at the familiar hazy profile of her face, relaxed into a quietly sad expression, listening to the muffled baseball announcer your father your father is watching on the television downstairs.
In the morning, she is gone again.
* * *
The next time she comes, you ask her to stay. She smiles widely and nods her head and your heart feels full for the first time in a while, heavy with emotion and still alike it's about to fly away. She so rarely looked happy anymore, so you decided it was a cause for celebration. You hug her briefly and run downstairs to the kitchen for refreshments, even though your father is there and you prefer not to interact with him. He is reading the newspaper at the table, playing with an unlit cigar between his thin chapped lips, and you give him the biggest smile you can as you dash to the freezer. He risks a tentative smile back at you as you grab some bowls and the Cookies and Cream out of the ice-box, but the bewildered curve of his mouth slips down into a crease of concern as he sees you filling two bowls and taking two ginger ales. "Are you... alright, son?” He looks at you oddly, talking around the chewed up cigar.
