I was alone in my bed. My stomach clenched in dread as I sat up and searched the room. When I saw his messenger bag against the wall and a light coming from the kitchen, I felt a huge sense of relief. I glanced at the clock. It was 4:41. I got quietly out of bed and padded into the living room. In the moonlight I could see Jeremy sitting cross-legged before the big mirror, staring at his reflection. I wasn't sure what he was doing so I stood still for a minute and watched him. When I saw him inhale a shaky breath, I realized he'd been crying. "Jeremy," I said. Shit, what's wrong? "Jesus, did I hurt you?" He turned to look at me, his face pale and wet with tears. But he shook his head and tried to smile. "It's nothing." He said. "It's nothing, Martin. Go back to bed." But it was so obviously not nothing that I couldn't leave him there sitting on the floor. "Tell me I didn't hurt you...I didn't mean to..." "You didn't hurt me, Martin." He stared at me, his voice calm, his face full of pain.
