20

At some point he grew up, and realized that the love he had become so accustomed to receiving from the people in his life had become measured, restricted to short hugs on celebrations and little kisses after time apart. Affection was rationed, and he'd become hungry - greedy - for it.

When he became ill, there was no comforting presence in his life, no Mom to bring him hot tea and take his temperature and boost his morale with chocolates. No Dad to lean his head against while they watched cartoons. Just him, alone, in an apartment that was too small for living, but enough, he guessed, for surviving.

He lay there in his bed, burning up with a fever that would, at some point, break, and wondered what might happen if he didn't call anyone. If he didn't tell them. Would anyone notice? Would there be someone to say, "Hey, we haven't heard from Luke in a while. Maybe we should check in on him..."?

Probably not. It's only been a day, after all.

The ceiling above had a crack on it. It always had. Had it grown bigger, or was that just his mind, playing tricks on him?