What if he’s not in the kitchen at all?
Part of me is terrified he will be. How do you look someone in the eye after learning of the trauma that was supposed to stay hidden? How do you bring up things they might not fully recall?
He doesn’t even remember his nightmares.
I have no answers as my socked feet whisper across the marble floor. I enter the kitchen and let out a sigh of relief.
He’s here.
My shoulders sag an inch. If I’d found this space empty, it would have wrecked me far worse than any difficult conversation could.
Perched on his stool in flannel pants and a clean tee, gray this time, he hovers over his cereal, glasses pushed up his nose. A second bowl waits one stool down, the box angled toward it.
My eyes tear up.
Before I lose grip on my emotions, I blink back the sting and cross the kitchen to take my usual seat, leaving the empty stool between us as a buffer neither of us names.
The cereal box crinkles when I tip it. Milk glugs from the carton. I three-tap my spoon against the rim without thinking, then freeze, mortified.
If he notices, he doesn’t call me out on it.
I exhale slowly and bring the spoon to my mouth. For weeks, the quiet between us offered comfort, a sense of belonging. Something about his presence makes me content, and I think I do the same for him.
As long as we leave certain subjects alone.
But I can’t stay silent anymore.
“Do you…?” My voice comes out scratched, so I clear my throat and try again. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
One nod, then he shovels in another bite.
It’s more honesty than I expected. “You’ve been waking up screaming since I got here.” I set my spoon down. “But that was the first time I saw you sleepwalk.”
He clenches his teeth, going completely still except for the tap of his fingers.
One…two…three.
It’s all I can do not to shudder. The last thing I want is for him to mistake my reaction for anything other than what it is.
A bruise on my heart that aches for the little boy washing his hands raw last night.
“Hugo…I’m not sure what to say. I just want you to know that if you want to talk about the nightmares, I’m here for you.”
His stare goes vacant, fixed somewhere past the backsplash. For a long moment, he says nothing. If he wants to open up to me, he knows he can.
“They’re night terrors.” He blinks his way back to the present, voice going soft. “Different from nightmares.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay. Most people don’t.” He sets his spoon down and lines it up with the edge of the counter. “I’ve never had a nightmare, as far as I’m aware. Those you remember.”
“So last night was…?”
“Sleepwalking, I guess. Doesn’t happen often.”
“But ithashappened before?”
Another nod.