finding happiness

with us tonight

ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴ ᴏᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ

:]

george isn't sure how long he has been awake for.

he isn't sure when he fell asleep, either.

it's dark outside so, regardless of the time frame, he has slept at a bad time, but even despite his rest he feels tired. at this point, george is starting to wonder if he knows what tired actually is, or if all of his emotions are so messed up that what he's feeling isn't tiredness at all but rather something much deeper than surface-level exhaustion.

sometimes he hardly sleeps, sometimes he sleeps too much, sometimes he gets just as much sleep as online articles suggest for a male of his age.

the tiredness never goes away.

george pulls himself into a sitting position and it takes much more effort than it should, his body feeling weighed down for more reasons than one. or maybe the weight is in his mind. same difference.

everything in him screams at him to lie back down and rest. his muscles ache and his head rings and his mind is overflowing. he refuses the craving as he shifts, kicking his legs off the side of the bed and settling his feet on the floor. the cold air of his room brushes against his bare ankles and the brit folds over himself to tug the bottom of his joggers back down over his legs. sue his sleep movements for ruffling up his clothes and making them set wrong.

george looks around his dark room, eyes skittering over the space. if it was left up to him, he imagines his room would've been bare and barren and, to the outside world, it would've looked quite sad. much like his room in england. however, dream and sapnap had decorated his room before he arrived, so it's all organised and his shelves are full of life and memories. all the stuff he had in boxes back in england, his friends clearly decided deserved to be on display when they unpacked george's belongings before he arrived.

the most decorations he had back in london were the ones left up from his birthday steam, which sat hanging about for long over a year. he liked the colour in his bland kitchen but he had to take it down when the fans began pointing out how worrying it really is that he never took it down.

his room, and the house he now lives in, is completely different.

it feels homely and that thought brings him some modicum of comfort but the feeling doesn't seep through him or warm his heart, it just sits over him for a brief moment before fading like any other sense of goodness in his life.

george is hungry and, even though the thought of hauling himself out of bed and across the house to feed himself feels impossible, he tells himself he has to do it. if he doesn't eat soon, his body will give in and he'll start feeling sick, and then he'll feel too sick to eat and it'll be an endless downward spiral until he's so lightheaded that he has to force something into his system.

so he stands on shaky legs, his feet embracing the cold of the floor beneath him even through his socks, and shuffles across his room and out into the hallway. the house seems dark but there is a distant light shining from down the hall.

george is drawn to it much like he's drawn to those futile flashes of brightness he feels in place of happiness, and he wonders if that craving for something other than darkness is what leads so many people to the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel.