Bedbugs.

Cozy and I lay in her bed, arranged as usual: she on her back, I on my side with my head on her shoulder. It was still daylight, but the cloudy, winter sky tinted everything blue-grey; it could have been a snowy day in March or a rainy day in August. We were quiet, aside from the sound of Mew's And the Glass Handed Kites and the occasional rustling of her pit bull in the kitchen.

I can't remember what, if anything, was said, but I found myself thinking about the day in May when Thom Yorke and I sat on the curb outside his house. We'd both been crying when his stepfather returned from work, and so we exiled ourselves to the front yard where we made small jokes and nudged each other with elbows and let the sun burn the backs of our necks. When I stood to leave, Thom Yorke put an arm around my shoulders and told me not to lose hope; told me that somewhere, someone was waiting who could make me feel human again. Somewhere, I'd find someone who didn't make me feel alone and cold and empty.

I didn't realize I was crying until Cozy placed the palm of my hand against her face and reminded me of how perfectly the two things fit together. I hadn't believed Thom Yorke initially, but there, at that moment, I realized how worthwhile everything had become. I legitimately cried for the first time in months. It wasn't embarrassing, it wasn't ugly, it wasn't unhappy, it wasn't shameful, and she didn't let go once.
It was the single most liberating thing I have ever experienced.