Before I can blink my eyes open, hers are already darting up and down. Morning dew drips from the window, something I’ll have to pat dry before mold claims its territory. The screen casts an ever-changing glow on her face: her forehead beaded with summer sweat, the temples I kissed hundreds of times, those eyes I’ve seen go through getting accepted into college, going to her first skydive, losing her grandma. We don’t speak. The staccato soundtrack persists–a playlist that can drive me crazy if I let it–, muffling the coos of the morning dove nested on the balcony.

Somebody’s watching me—

              Five red flags to look out for—

                       Come tour a military base with me—

                                     Here’s how to make the best boba at home—

                                                     I married a convicted felon—

                                                                 Fashion trends that will send your parents in a coma—

Year round it takes her somewhere else, not moving, still absent. Away from the parents who didn’t wish us happy birthday or merry Christmas. Away from our empty fridge and the weird men that try to look through our curtains at night. I want to bring her back next to me, actually next to me, but I don’t dare. Instead I catch myself staring, she looks so pretty in the spotlight. 

And before I know it, slower than a boiling frog, she sucks me into her world. somewhere our union is never questioned, somewhere that isn’t ending soon, somewhere we can forget. It’s her and I, but not against the world, it’s her and I with the world, this wide new web, our bodies and all their muscle memory left behind. Saturday mornings scroll past us and I forget to dry the windows.