sleepless night

dear you, gts

insomnia (n)

A sleep disorder caused by stress/ mental health disorders in which individuals with it have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, or both.

*****

Charlotte can't breathe.

Her throat burns as if placed on fire. It's tight and dry, like her limbs. Dehydrated. Her heart beats violently in her chest, echoing against the flimsy fabric, now drenched in sweat, of her shirt. An eternity, it seems, passes before she gathers enough energy to sit up. Her movements are awkward and clumsy as she treats herself with a glass of water and decides to sit down again. She touches her forehead with the back of her hand, feeling the sticky hair clinging on her skin and asks herself: What has she done to be this pathetic?

As she thinks, memories of the previous tantalizing week molest her thoughts. Being the executive producer was not so fun, especially when she was assigned with a group of not-so-useful collaborators, which resulted in her doing everything on her own at the end. She had to meet the customers, kiss ass the so-called celebrities and handle every single incident that occurred at the studio. The responsibility - and the future - of this advertising campaign from a prestigious Japanese company has been placed on her company aka her shoulders. They were ridiculously meticulous to the point where they insisted on checking hundreds of water bottles for the staff, one by one, even though there weren't any differences. By the time the last shot was taken and the director shouted "Cut", she had not had any sleep in 48 hours.

Not sleeping is the stupidest thing in the world, as she has reminded herself from the start. One night suffering from insomnia will result in many aspects such as languidness, dark circles, acne breakouts and a lot more. But Charlotte is a workaholic, her life consumed by her job. In the end she's always the one to take charge of the work as she constantly feels unsettled with tasks that aren't done by herself. No one can deny she was born a leader, though she never asks, or wants, to be one.

Her gaze shifts from the clock to the mirror, looking at the familiar figure. No, not so familiar anymore, not after the fever that has completely beat her down. And it's discernible. Her hair a tangled nest, dark circles around her once dazzling eyes in contrast with her pale skin. She's thinner, that's unarguable. Being sick is bad enough, but she doesn't want to look sick. Charlotte looks at her makeup table, feeling extremely guilty. Normally, she would have at least 5 layers of skincare products applied on her skin before going to bed, but the pyrexia has drained all of her energy out.

"At least I'm naturally beautiful," she tells herself, sighing before heading to her bed, more than ready for another 8 hour sleep. Laying on the bed, she wiggles as her feet are now secured in the blanket, no longer cold. Just as she's about to turn off the lamp, her doorbell rings.

Charlotte startles. She doesn't remember ordering anything, though it's not like it'll be delivered at 3a.m anyway. Maria, her housemaid, is not supposed to show up in the next five hours, plus, she has a key. No matter who it is, she has no intentions in meeting anyone in the middle of the night, with this zombie-like appearance. But the doorbell is incessant, enough to pull her out of bed. She decides to drag her feet to the door and give whoever on the other side a much-needed lecture called "The subtle art of not disturbing people at 3a.m".

"Tada!" A familiar figure stands in front of her, his hand tousling his chestnut hair. Iridescent blue eyes shine in the dark, a mischievous grin on his lips.

"Jesus, El! It's 3 in the morning!"

"So?" He says without skipping a beat, one brow lifted up.

"So? I'm fucking tired. What are you doing here?"