Facade

15 || prey

Song : BABYDOLL - Ari Abdul
                             
~ Alejandra ~

Being fully conscious, sober and completely aware of whose bed I've been tossing and turning in for over an hour makes it all the more difficult to fall asleep.

There's a faint glow from the street outside, casting a shadow around the room with a beam of light shining on the hardwood floor.

Sometimes, I turn to stare at the ceiling, remembering whose roof I'm looking at. Then, I turn and look out the window, realizing that it's not my block on the other side of the glass. Finally, turning towards the wall, I revisit the conversation from the rooftop about his favorite color that's painted on the walls.

The scent of his sheets, dark and soft, fill my nose no matter which way I turn. The dominating aroma of his cologne that reminds me of what it feels like to speed down the highway with all the windows down and music blasting.

A smell that makes you feel intoxicated, exhilarated.

Being here now, I'm surprised they don't smell like cigarettes too, yet they smell just like I remember. Just like him.

It's making me fucking sick.

I mean, laying here and knowing he's right down the hall just stirs something in me, like a growing feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's something I've never felt before.

A mix between fear and desire.

Desire for Gabriel Santiago.

And the worst and scariest part is that I've been feeling it all fucking night.

I look up at the ceiling, faintly lit from the cast of light from the window, wracking my brain with decisions that don't need to be made.

Part of me wants to go out there, put on my shoes and just leave. Even though I don't need to, that part of me is screaming at me to get out and go home, even if it means the mess I'll find there might be worse than the one I'm in here.

But another small part wants me to get up and go out there just to see if he's awake. Even if he isn't, that other part of me whispers to me to stay, tricking me into wanting to wake up to the scent of him.

Jesus, I hate being sober.

People say substances impair your judgment but apparently for me, it's the exact fucking opposite.

I turn over to grab my phone that I left on the nightstand next to the bed. Flipping it open, the light momentarily stuns me before my eyes can read and register the time on the screen.

1:17 am.

Fucking fantastic.

I shut it with a huff, keeping it in my hands on my stomach, debating if I should get up to get water, but I don't know if he's still awake.

It's the middle of the night, there's no way he's still up. Then again, here I am.

I exhale a harsh breath and turn over again, now facing the wall.

Okay, but would it be such a bad thing if he was awake?

The question from my own mind takes me by surprise and my pulse quickens at the thought.

Yes, it would be bad. Very, very bad.

Different scenarios begin to flood my mind of what could happen when I walk down the short hallway to where he is.

Flashes of lingering glances or faint touches of our chests as we stand far too close to the other to try and win our silent game of intimidation. Those are more of memories than fantasies.