"What's wrong?" M. sits up, pulling away. You disentangle your legs from theirs.

"I'm sorry," you hear yourself say. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

M. gets up and leaves you alone on their couch. It's too much for you. You're not sure how you even got here.

More time. I need more time.

"Water. You need water." M. returns, proffering a glass.

You take it from them gratefully. You didn't expect kindness.

"Is everything okay with you?" M. peers at you, trying to read your face. You look down, ashen-faced. You don't want to talk about it.

M. seems to know it. They gingerly pat your shoulder.

"Is it okay if I stay?" You try to keep your voice even, keep it from breaking.

"Yeah."

Without another word, the two of you lie down. M.'s arms are wrapped around you loosely. It's comfortable enough.

You fall asleep this way. The couch creaks. It's a fitful, restless night. You're in a foreign country, but at least you're not alone. M. stays with you.

You think—maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be better.