I think one of the things I miss most about my apartment is how it feels in the middle of the night. Not that it’s quiet, because there is always a floor creaking or a pipe clanking somewhere in our old prewar building. I miss the feeling of it being the middle of the night and knowing that everyone else in the building is asleep, or should be asleep. The feeling of waking up at 2:42 a.m. and walking across my apartment and feeling like I’ve snuck into a party.

Not like the 2:42 a.m. at the hospital, which doesn’t differentiate night from day, where there are always people working, people coming in and out of my room. I can at least look outside and see that it’s dark, but it doesn’t really make much difference.

I’m looking out the window now, and even though Miami is a big city, I can still see more stars here than in Brooklyn.

I wonder what Flora is dreaming about, wonder if she’s dreaming about me.

I have a girlfriend, I think to myself again. My girlfriend is Kelsey. In all my fantasies and daydreams over the years about Kelsey being my girlfriend, I always envisioned me asking her out in some grand, exciting, romantic way, and I always envisioned our first date being the kind that other girls would be jealous of, that other guys would be jealous of for not thinking of themselves.

My favorite date idea was watching the fireworks on the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island, our little cart swinging back and forth gently in the cool night breeze. In my fantasy, I was able to overlook my fear of heights as I slipped my arm over her shoulder to keep her warm. We’d get off the ride together and my arm would still be over her shoulders, and then I’d win her a teddy bear from one of the games and she’d be laughing at something funny I said.

Why would I ever think I’d want to break up with her?

When I see her in the afternoon I should ask if she wants to go on a first date to Coney Island when we get back from quarantine. When we get back from quarantine … Sometimes I forget that I won’t be in the hospital room forever, that I will go back to school, back to Brooklyn, that this will all be one of those things someday I’ll forget the details of. Like my dad’s funeral. I can’t remember who I talked to, I can’t remember what I ate, I can’t remember what suit I wore, and I can’t remember any of the readings from the service. The only thing I remember is that I didn’t cry.

But unlike my dad’s funeral, I don’t want to forget all the details of quarantine. I’d even be okay with remembering every single vitals check, every single middle-of-the-night wake-up call if it means that all my memories of Flora will stay in my brain forever.

I look out the window onto the hallway, see Flora sigh in her sleep, and file the memory away in my brain, pack it away carefully in a box that I know I’ll handle with the utmost care.