- 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜/𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 -

𝟶𝟶𝟾.

∙ ⸰ ⊱ 𝚑𝚒𝚖 ⊰ ⸰ ∙

I like to keep my promises.

I'd go through hell and back to make sure I never break them.

That's a promise.

And I don't care if I drown. Only her.

The bowl finds the sink, and I start for the stairs. "Night, Dad."

"Night."

Good has lost its spot before our nights. Ever since that one, they've been anything but good, 'cause we both know our nights are just the dark hours before the even darker days.

It seems that I've lost my sight, that I can't see a damn thing, that I'm at risk of missing every little and big thing. Things like Daisy's tail wagging, Dad actually looking past those lenses, the worry being wiped from her face even for a moment, whether she's breathing—beating with life.

I've learned sleep steals my awareness, my capability to be reactive, and my readiness. Sleep invites death into its little home, lets it play among the unaware, and once the mess has been made, there's no way to clean it up other than dragging in a damn body bag.

"Eren," her voice finds me, breaking through lips I never see moving in the dark. "Please, go to sleep."

The thing is, I'm aware even when I'm asleep, thanks to the nightmares that play around in my mind. Nightmares of something real—something I've seen and heard.

Something I missed.

| ♫ 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝 - 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎 |

"It's almost one. Get your lazy ass up."

Messy sheets.

Twisted clothes.

And skin stolen of any warmth.

That's what I saw as I held onto the door, letting it go as I absentmindedly moved forward, oblivious to the fact that the only steps I'd be taking from that point on would be backward.

Ever since, I've been walking my way back and forth to hell every damn night, and crawling back out with my skin charred away right down to my bones, bones that beg to become ash. To become nothing salvageable.

I don't sleep.

Because I don't want to sleep.

The last time I did—the last time I closed my eyes to eventually open them again to the sun shining through my window, the girl down the hall had opened hers to a dark room of night only to have them closed by a responder's gloved fingers before she was zipped up and hidden away, once again in the dark despite the afternoon sun lingering overhead.

Every other day, she had been the one to wake me up. And every other day, her bed would already be made by the time she unplugged her phone from its spot on her wicker nightstand.