Half

Your half, my half.

Bigger half.

It seemed to Bree that for much of his life, he had been greedy for his share, consistently grabbing at his half. The last half. Now, he examined his wrinkled sheets.

Frosted eyes. Starched face. The linen's creases were deep in some places, where the navy fabric had gathered underneath sleeping bodies, becoming permanently molded.

Part of the bed was empty. A meaningful half was missing, substituted by a hole - deliberate vacancy. And when Bree abandoned his warm, bitter resting place, he turned back to discover that it had become inexplicably, unnervingly whole.