The wind wakes the leaves, whipping them right off the tree. Fall. You look out the window, the menacingly beautiful sunrise shining apon the clean white sheets. You tell him to wake up. He moans and rolls over. You don't bother. You get up, and walk to the kitchen. Everything was clean. How you love. The pancake mix was in a high cabinet, so you practically had to climb on the counter to reach it. The bottle of vanilla extract was right next, and then the nutmeg and cinnamon. You never make pancakes without. As almost every day, you turn the stove on with a push and turn maneuver, and the flames burst into a steady circle. The dishwasher, which you prop open, is filled with dishes that you didn't bother to put away last night. You grab the pan quickly, hurrying to place it atop the fire, and pour pancake mix that has been haphazardly mixed. As you wait a few minutes for the pancakes to brown, you hear a noise. It's him, getting up, running water, flushing the toilet. Finally, you hear nothing. Dead silence. You look over at the door pancakes, turn off the fire, and set them on a plate. Walking back into the room, you hold the plate with steady hands. "ive got breakfast for ya", the only thing that's making noise: your voice. It echoes back to you. Entering the bedroom door, you find nothing. No trace of him ever being there at all. You drop the plate. A single paper, such crimson liquid dripping along the sides, the only words apparent read: you deserve to know the truth.