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Long, lean fingers thread through my hair, their touch familiar, deliberate. His amber scent fills the air, curling into my lungs, and his warmth seeps into my bones, warding off the ever-present chill in my chest. He always feels so warm in my dreams. His touch soothing. His presence grounding. It’s as if I can almost feel his heartbeat under my fingertips, steady and alive. For someone desperate to get over him, I surely sleep a lot, as if chasing fragments of him in the recesses of my mind. To lose myself in the echoes of his touch. To steal fleeting moments where I lay my head on his lap and watch TV, back when things felt simpler. “He’s lost weight.” His voice, hoarse yet deep, slices through the haze of sleep. His fingers feel more solid, more real. Careful, hesitant. My heart jolts. But I don’t move. I remain still, breathing evenly, holding on to the fragile figments of my dream. “Are they even feeding him properly at home?” The tenor of his voice rings in my ear and rushes to