reverie / hs

9

Finally home. I step into the living room, the soft glow of the television illuminating my mom's curly strawberry blonde hair as she sat on the couch, engrossed in a movie. The room was bathed in the flickering light of the screen, casting dancing shadows across the walls. It's a familiar scene, one I've witnessed countless times. My heart aches with a familiar pang of sadness.

"Hey, Mom," I greeted softly, sinking into the plush armchair opposite her. The movie played on, its dialogue a distant murmur in the background.

Mom turned to me, her brown eyes warm but distant. "Hey, sweetie. How was your evening?"

I hesitate, glancing towards the empty spot beside her where Dad usually sat. Dad's absence is a familiar presence. 

"Where's Dad?" I asked, my voice tinged with concern. The concern I feel is genuine, but a part of me is also relieved. It's almost as if I'm waiting for him to be gone so I can finally be alone.

"He's still at work," Mom replied quickly, her gaze returning to the screen. "It's a busy time for him." The way she says it is so dismissive, as if she doesn't even want to think about it.

I check the time on my phone, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. "It's past eight, Mom. Why is he still at work this late?"

Mom's response is guarded, her tone evasive. "You know how it is, Elena. He's dedicated to his company." Her words are a shield, protecting something, but I can't quite figure out what.

Annoyance bubbled up within me, mingling with worry. "Mom, this is ridiculous. He's been working late so often lately. You're not even a little suspicious?." I feel a pang of anger, a resentment toward him for making my mom so unhappy.

She sighed softly, her fingers absently playing with a loose thread on the couch, ignoring my statement. She's so resigned.

Frustration gnawed at me, the unspoken tension hanging heavy in the air. I wanted to press further, to demand answers to the questions that lingered unspoken between us. But a weariness settled over me, and with a resigned sigh, I stood up. It's not my place to interfere. It's their relationship. But it hurts to see her so unhappy.

"Goodnight, Mom," I murmured, brushing a kiss against her cheek.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. I linger for a moment, wanting to say more, but the words won't come.

Alone in my room, I sank onto my bed, the events of the evening swirling in my mind. The echo of the warmth and comfort I felt because of my dreams were now replaced by the cold reality of my family's fractured facade. I long for the blue walls of Harry's house, for his gentle touch, for the comfort of that world where everything felt right.

Closing my eyes, I whispered a silent prayer, a desperate plea to dream again of Harry, of that surreal world where everything made sense—a world where I could escape the tangled web of emotions that ensnared me.

The faint glow of streetlights filtered through my curtains, casting gentle patterns on the walls. Shadows danced in the corners of my room, their silent movements mirroring the turmoil within me. I can't shake the image of Dad, still at work at this hour, and Mom, sitting alone in the living room. It's such a stark contrast to the life I dreamt of, the life I lived with Harry.

Had I missed something? Was there more to their late nights and whispered conversations? The uncertainty gnawed at me, a persistent ache in my chest.

Outside, the distant hum of traffic mingled with the occasional rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

Tomorrow would bring another day of classes, of mundane routines and unanswered questions. But for now, in the quiet solitude of my room, I allowed myself to drift, to lose myself in the hope of finding Harry once more in the realm of dreams. I long for his warmth, his touch, for the escape he offers.

The steady rhythm of my breathing became a comforting lullaby, carrying me away from the complexities of reality and into the sanctuary of sleep. With each breath, I surrendered to the darkness, embracing the possibility of another encounter with Harry, where the lines between dreams and waking life blurred into an elusive truth.

As sleep wrapped its gentle arms around me, I whispered one final plea into the silence of the night: "Please, God, let me go back to those same dreams again."