Don't Get Into The Car

[ 22 ]

The next morning, a gentle light filters through the curtains, softly illuminating the room. As you slowly awaken around noon, a faint scent of fresh linens lingers in the air. You aren't surprised that you slept in, but you are surprised to see Simon still asleep beside you. Carefully shifting your body, you feel the warmth of his arm, which had been draped over your waist, slip away. As you do so, the blanket glides against your skin, providing a comforting sensation as you pull it up over your shoulders.

The events of last night replay in your mind like an old film, grainy and distorted, shrouded in a veil of fog. Your memories are muddled and jumbled. But there's one thing, however, that you remember vividly — the kiss you initiated. You don't know why you did. At least that is what you try to tell yourself. You also try to rationalize it, to convince yourself that the alcohol made you lose control and do it, that you weren't thinking clearly. Yet somewhere deep inside, buried beneath layers of denial and self-deception, you know the undeniable truth — you wanted to kiss Simon. Fuck, not only that, but you wanted more, much more. Because after days of feeling numb, empty and hollow, the moment you started to feel different, the moment when happiness started to seep in, when contentment started to fill up the hollow spaces, you couldn't bear the thought of letting those feelings slip away.

Simon's lips part, and he mumbles something in his sleep. A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, but you quickly wipe it off, not wanting to give in to the warm fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest.

Eventually, after what seems like an eternity of simply watching Simon sleep, you roll out of the bed. Your body feels as though it has been run over by a truck. All your muscles scream in protest, aching in places you didn't even know could ache. But, on the bright side, at least the room isn't spinning anymore, and the world isn't dancing around you like a sickening carousel.

Planting your feet on the cold floor, the stark contrast between the cozy warmth of the bed and the biting chill of the floor sends an icy jolt up your spine. You slowly get up. As your gaze wanders around, it lands on the window, which is slightly ajar. At first, you think it is a trick of the light, but as you approach it, a sudden gust of wind forcefully pushes its way through the small opening. You halt for a moment, letting the wind play with your hair, feeling the strands whip against your face. Then you inhale deeply, pulling the fresh air into your lungs.

Had this happened a week ago, you would have been frantically scheming of ways to pry the window open fully, perhaps even considering jumping out. But now, you simply stand there. Your arms are wrapped around your waist, as you take in shallow breaths of the crisp air. Now and then, your eyes dart over your shoulder, checking on Simon. Yet he continues to sleep soundly, undisturbed by your movement...

You take a shower, wash your hair and then spend another hour in the bathroom, standing like a statue in front of the sink, looking at the mirror that is above it. You don't recognise your reflection. The woman staring back at you is a stranger; her features unfamiliar, the dark circles under her eyes a harsh reminder of your restless nights. With a sigh, your fingers lightly trace these unwanted signs of fatigue before your palms come to rest on your cheeks, hiding your face from view.

When you return to the bedroom, you find Simon awake. The sight of you, dressed with your hair still slightly damp from the shower, brings a smile to his face. Surprisingly, you smile back at him.

"Did you sleep well?" He asks and you nod. "Good."

You are rooted to the spot, standing near the end of the bed. Uncertain of what do to next, you watch Simon, who remains just as quiet, his gaze never leaving you.

"I'm hungry," you finally break the silence. At your words, Simon sits up, the movement causing the blanket to slide off him and reveal his bare skin. Your eyes involuntarily travel down his chiselled chest, only returning to his face when he speaks.