“I have to go.”

“No, you don’t.” He slides on top of me, pinning my wrists onto the bed.

“Yes, I do.”

Our faces are almost touching.

“Why?”

“I have to take my medication,” I blurt, surprising myself.

He rolls onto his back, releasing me.

“What are you taking?”

I consider this question because he is a surgeon. If he doesn’t know it’s a mood stabiliser and anti-psychotic, he’ll certainly know it’s prescribed for mental disorders.

But fuck it, I’ll probably never see him again anyway.

“Quetiapine.”

“Oh.”

I wait for him to shy away in disgust yet his leg is still leaning against mine.

Our heads continue to rest on adjacent pillows.

We blink at each other.

I silently challenge him to say something un-PC; crack a bad joke; or patronise me.

But he holds my gaze.

“I’m on that.”

I can’t think of any response and we burst out laughing simultaneously. For the next ten minutes as I’m getting dressed, booking a taxi, and walking out the door, we cannot stop ourselves exploding into fits of laughter whenever we look at each other.

It’s the most honest conversation I’ve had in months.

***

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