coup de foudre | jercy

seven: pale-grey canvas

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the next morning is foggy. my phone's charged, and although i don't want to, i glance at my phone anyway and see three new notifications—none that matter. not that it's the same thing, but none from percy either.

it's a sunday, though. most people are sleeping in till ten.

me? i wish i could. instead, every sunday—and tuesday, sometimes thursday—i go to the gym. i plug in my earbuds, get my wallet, phone, keys, and a granola bar out of the fridge. the place isn't too far, and as you'd expect at 5am on a sunday, both the drive and the gym is empty.

the door folds open soundlessly, revealing an inside with the heaters on full blast, pitch-black interior against bright white lights, and mirrors spread across the walls. i'd expected it to be empty, but the silence still catches me like a cut along the ears.

today, it's quieter than quiet, somehow. it feels as if the fog has swallowed people whole. the only one here besides me is a woman, broad-shouldered and leaning against the wall, headphones over her head and a bottle of protein shake in her hand. i see her everytime i'm here: clarisse la rue. we're not quite friends in the conventional sense, but friendly. in the two years i've lived at my current place, i've seen her here whenever i come to the gym. every morning, without exception.

she glances my way as i walk in, and raises a hand in greeting. an array of dumbbells are scattered around her feet. i return the gesture, and she returns her eyes to the empty air ahead of her. clarisse doesn't do small talk, and i don't mind. co-existing like that, in silence—i won't call it assuring, really, but it's the same sort of confidence with knowing the exact number of buttons on your shirt.

although she's come before me, she stays for longer. different goals, different styles, i guess—i come here more out of habit than anything, and run through each thing to the next without stopping. the same way someone brushes their teeth, or ties their shoelaces. a nod in her direction, no words, and i'm out.

the door swings open, and i'm instantly reminded of how sharp the cold bites. the frozen air brings a certain numbness to my cheeks and jaw, and the tips of my fingers. i try rubbing warmth into my face as i walk towards my car.

6:14am. although i knew nothing would come out of it, i've checked my phone again. percy hasn't messaged yet.

maybe that was it. friend was what he'd written on the cup. strange, admittedly—i still doubt anyone i know, besides myself, has been asked something like that post-high school, so outright.

well, there's one exception: i remember nico saying how he met will, back in college. still, college, high school, everything before—it feels lifetimes behind, lost somewhere in the back of the world's memory.

i watch the fog reluctantly climb further from the ground as i drive back. it slowly retreats into the sky, turning it into a pale-grey canvas for buildings to shoot up into.

the grey keeps climbing and my fingers tap the steering wheel and i hold the word in my hands like a crumbling piece of paper. friends, friends, friends. is that it? a single conversation, an occasional good morning text?

all the effort, for that, is... well, it doesn't seem worth it. or maybe, as always, i'm just thinking too much. too much time on my hands. 6:20am. i'll reach my apartment any moment now.

time is like that, i guess. no matter what i do, however many things i try to bury myself in, from drawing to boxing to my job, i'll never be able to catch up. it's always going to be there, as if i'm running after the wind.