🫧Bubbles🫧 | DNF

🫧 Chapter 5 🫧

"Of all liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears."
— Rudyard Kipling

Sleep schedules were something George was pissed off by (he didn't have one). He didn't sleep most nights, actually. He's kept awake at night overthinking, and he wakes up way too early in the morning... overthinking.

Today isn't an exception.

At seven in the morning.

On a weekend.

George lay in bed, tasked with tossing and turning to see if he could get comfortable and sleep again.

He wondered about his panic attack in front of Clay yesterday. If Clay had thought of him any differently. It didn't matter to George what Clay thought of him, just the fact that he knew. Knew about George's biggest insecurity. A person crowded with friends and popularity flowing his way like the wind in his blond hair.

George tugged his pillow from under his head and hugged it tight. Everyone was gonna know.

George squeezed his eyes shut. A static, fuzzy vision clouded his eyes from how hard he was squeezing.

When nothing was working, George eventually gave up and submerged his face in the pillow, letting it suffocate him. He just needed to stop thinking.

Eventually, after a realization that he needed air dawned on him, George tore his head from the pillow and let out a gasp for air. Maybe he didn't need to lose air; maybe he needed to gain it again.

It was hard to get up and dive through mediocre clothes to wear, but George accomplished his task through the sheer force of yearning to go to sleep afterward.

Kristy had always said that one of the main causes of insomnia is a lack of activity. You lay in bed all day and do nothing; you don't waste energy; you're up all night. And if you do waste energy, your body will shut down quicker when you go to bed. George was going to test that theory today because he was not going to tolerate a tired weekend just to be tired for five more days afterward.

The morning wind was a bit chilly and uncomfortable. It was just a fact that George would have to accept if he was going to plow through a morning walk. There wasn't much to do, and George had figured out he forgot his phone at home at a moment too late where he didn't feel like returning. Oh well, he'll only be out for about an hour. Anyway, his parents won't even know he left the house.

George didn't register the whistling of early birds that have been singing for hours already or the slight wind that didn't feel too comfortable on his nose and fingertips. The only thoughts on his mind were still the ones he had while in bed; he was now just in a vertical position and walking through a nearly deserted street. The people walking with their dogs and the joggers running down the sidewalks stared at George as he walked through. They probably felt the amount of distress and anxiousness that was being radiated off him. They probably hated him like George hated himself, too.

"George? Is that you?"

The voice made George want to throw himself off a mountain. That's exactly what he did. Well, he didn't throw himself off a mountain, but George did attempt to outrun and escape his inevitable demise.

"George!" The voice was louder this time, and George nearly screamed when he felt a large hand on his shoulder.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Clay!" George hissed out. He placed a hand on his chest in an attempt to catch his breath.

"Sorry! I thought you heard me! I called out to you a few times."

Clay had a neon yellow shirt on and baggy dark knee-length shorts. He had a band on his bicep that held his phone, and he opened the band up to put his airpods in their case before zipping it back up. He was slightly red from sweat that had mostly accumulated on his neck and face.