"(Y/n)! (Y/n)! (Y/n)!"

"Yes, Lin?" You say, without looking up from your textbook. For fifteen minutes, Lin has been completely silent. A new record. You feel the impact of his thin body on the sofa cushion next to you. "Listen to this!" He says, ripping the headphones out of the computer and allowing the track he's working on to play freely.

"When I'm alone in my room sometimes I stare at the wall, and on this particular night I felt my conscience stall. I heard a knock at my door, I knew it wasn't my wife, and that's when Miss Maria Reynolds walked into my life..."

"That's very nice, Lin." You say, trying to pry the cap off your highlighter, to no avail. "I know!" Lin says. You look over at him, his beaming eyes and crooked smile. "I think you're saying 'Mariah' wrong, hon. You're saying it like 'Maria'."

"Oh." His face falls, and he looks wounded. "Hey." You say, pinching his nose. His looks up at you and smiles in a false half-hearted manner.

The best days are spent like this. You, curled up on the sofa, studying. Lin, laying on the floor, or walking around, or snoozing on your lap, always writing. Weekdays are lonely. You and Lin have classes on the weekdays, and you have work on top of that, so you scarcely see one another.

Lin writes day and night. Some nights, you get home late from work, to find him slumped over the laptop. On these nights, you kiss his forehead, close the laptop, and hope he was able to finish whatever he was working on before he fell asleep and the thought escaped him.

Due to his work ethic, you start to wonder if the ever-present bags under his eyes are part of his normal facial structure, or are a product of his obsessive personality. Fearing for his health, you asked him to find ways to take breaks from writing Hamilton, and he obliged... by getting a job as an editor and writer for a mildly popular online newspaper. Ugh, Lin.

You look at the clock on the wall and see that it reads 9:45 pm (21:45). You yawn and gently close your textbook, stepping off the couch and stretching. You look over at Lin, still typing feverishly, writing someone new. You shake you head, smile, and say, "Lin." He doesn't look up. You walk over and put you hand on his shoulder. He takes off his head phones and looks up with his large, enchanting eyes. "Have you eaten dinner yet?"

Lin thinks for a moment then says, "Uh, no. But I'll eat later." "Lin!" You exclaim. He's done this a lot lately, forgetting or refusing to eat. He looks up at you, desperately, "I can't stop right now I have got to get this down. Leave me alone." Hurt, you walk off to bed, and quietly shut the door, listening to the gentle patter of rain on the window outside, and the violet taps of Lin's fingers on the keys.

You and Lin never talked about housing arrangements after that first time. There's something about discovering your passion with someone (or for someone) that removes the need for such conversations. But there is one boundary which is yet to be crossed: Sleeping arrangements. You sleep in your bed, Lin sleeps on the couch.

This is a recurring thought in your mind as you get ready for bed. There's a storm brewing tonight, and if there's anything you hate more than cheerleaders, it's thunder. You slip out of your jeans and into a pair of cotton shorts. Crawling into your bed, you slip into the sheets and clutch your pillow tightly to yourself, praying for sleep.