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She always tells you not to stay up waiting for her when she works late.
I have so much work to do, she had told you on the phone in the afternoon. I don't know when I'll be home.
You had tried to reassure her, tell her that it was ok, that you understood.
I'm sorry, she had added, her voice hesitant, afraid of your possible reaction, but this is a rough month.
You know that.
She still feels the need to explain, to justify herself, the shadow of a past, failed relationship still haunting her.
But you know how it feels all too well.
So you do not doubt her, or suspect the worst. You trust her. Because you know her.
And you know how hard she's been working, lately.
You see her usually bright eyes looking more and more tired everyday, and the bags underneath them; you see the quantities of coffee she's been drinking lately, and her attempts to cover her numerous yawns.
The elections are next week. There's possibly no busier time for a journalist as talented as she is.
You only hope that she takes care of herself, that she finds time in her busy schedule to rest every now and then.
And so you tell her, like usual, not to worry, that no, you won't wait awake for her.
I'm too old to stay up late anyway, you had joked sometimes.
She had smiled at that. Told you that you're not old. That you actually have so much stamina she finds it hard to keep up with you.
You had wanted to argue that it's not true, but you hadn't. Instead you had smiled, and kissed her lips.
But you won't keep your promise. You never do.
You lie in bed and wait for her, trying your best to fight sleep.
It's hard to keep your eyes open when your eyelids feel so heavy, but you don't care.
Time doesn't seem to pass, and the darkened room seems to get darker by the minute as you stare into the void.
The clock on the bedside table reads 2.05 a.m.
You give her ten more minutes. You don't think you can do more than that.
But then, finally, you hear the front door open, and then immediately close.
You hear the sound of her feet walking up the stairs. She's taken her heels off.
Then your door opens.
And you close your eyes.
She makes a quick work of getting ready for bed and changing into her sleepwear, almost as if she can't wait to finally lie down.
She's probably so tired. Your heart aches at the thought.
You hate to see her so exhausted all the time.
You can't wait to tell her all about the vacation you've booked once the elections are over.
Hopefully she'll love it.
The bathroom door opens, and a few seconds later the covers are quickly pulled up, as the bed dips right behind you.
Then they gently fall on you once again, as she slowly scoots over.
She finally stops once her front is pressed against your back, and her left arm immediately finds its way across your waist.
The scent of her is suddenly everywhere around you and it's so familiar, so reassuring - you have long since started to associate it with home.
Her mouth leaves a gentle kiss agains the back of your neck, and you feel your skin tingle as she nuzzles the short hair behind your ear.
"Love you" she whispers against your skin, and you wonder if she knows you're awake.
It doesn't matter.
You feel your heart flutter in your chest.
I love you too, you want to say. But you won't ruin this moment.
Her breathing slows down in no time, and you know she's already fallen asleep.
It doesn't matter that it all lasts less than a bunch of seconds.
You simply can't miss this.
You finally close your eyes and let sleep take over you.