"Richard Siken," she whispered back, breath hitching. She knew that poem, had found it beautiful and held it close, written it in a notebook as if it belonged to nobody else. It felt like a gift for Erran to even come close to it. Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. / These, our bodies, possessed by light.
"Do me a favor?" she whispered. "Just... my abuela always told me that taking a bath or showering when you were sick made you feel better, and it always helped me feel better. I can do it, I can get up, just... will you please just stay in here with me?" A beat. "Maybe help me wash my hair? I just feel shaky..."