He is lying awake when she comes to his window for the third night in a row.

Tap, tap, tap.

He waits for her these days, knowing that if he is awake, she is awake, and if she is awake then she is coming for him. For six years now, since they were ten, it has always been her, choosing days at random to request his attention with knuckles on glass in the quiet of night, intervals of weeks or months in-between. But more often, lately—the time between visits growing shorter and shorter. The time she stays with him growing shorter, too. Inversely proportional to the scars she doesn’t bother to conceal from him anymore.