𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐡 // Dreamwastaken x oc

♫TWENTY-FIVE♫

Enthralling

            (¸.·'*    capturing and holding one's attention; fascinating.

splash.

scrub.

scrub.

drip.

clank.

The sounds of dishwashing were all that filled Delilah's ears as she zoned out from the distant chatter in the dining room. Likewise, during dinner, she'd let the scraping sounds of silver against ceramic keep her thoughts stable as her friends talked among themselves.  The only words she offered were, "I'll do the dishes," and a faint smile.

She'd noticed Wilbur looking at her with concern during the meal (Chinese takeaways, nobody could be bothered to cook), but hoped he wouldn't say anything.

After all, the reason for her sudden gloomy mood was pathetic to say out loud; at least to Delilah, so she decided if anybody asked, she'd simply say she had a sore stomach. 

Unless of course, someone was to see past her emotional barricade. She found it hard to keep her emotions bagged up, and being in such a large and crowded house, she was bound to hit her breaking point in front of one of her friends.

It's not that she distrusted them. Hell, they were the only people in the world she did trust. However, she'd rather save a piece of her dignity than tell anyone that she had a silly crush on Dream, the Dream, and she'd been so naive to think he would ever like her back. This had only heightened the anxiety she'd been feeling recently. The thoughts were damaging her soul, mind,  and heart. They hadn't been this bad since before she began going to therapy, and that was a time she didn't enjoy. 

Anxiety has a freaky effect on your body. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. It corrodes you, little by little, and when you feel a glimpse of calm, of peace, it comes right back to drag you further down with it. Delilah could write a 400-page poem about anxiety, and how much she despised it. However, that 400-page poem was looking as if it would soon become 500 if the recent anxiety she'd been feeling didn't go away.

However, she felt as if none of her friends needed to bear such 400-page poem about anxiety, so Delilah planned to keep her feelings to herself.

splash.

scrub.

scrub.

drip.

clank.

"Hey,"

Delilah was snapped out of her trance by Wilbur's sudden appearance in the kitchen.

She cleared her throat. 

"Hey,"

Wilbur picked up a tea towel and began carefully drying some of the silver cutlery that Delilah had washed. 

The pair remained silent for a long moment, before Wilbur finally spoke.

"I noticed you were really... distant at dinner," he said quietly.

Delilah's heart skipped a beat. 

Plan sore-stomach is a go.

"Oh, um, yeah I've got a pretty sore stomach," 

Wilbur cocked an eyebrow.

"Are you sure? I didn't know a sore stomach could make you so sad."

Delilah gulped. She should have taken drama in high school, it would have made up for her terrible acting at dinnertime, and for being a poor liar in her current situation.