AVA'S POV
It almost feels like I'm floating, like I'm drifting through some kind of dark, endless ocean where everything is muted, soft, and far away. My body feels disconnected, like I'm barely holding onto it, slipping in and out of awareness. There are flashes—moments when I think I hear someone calling my name, feel the warmth of a hand on my shoulder, a familiar voice breaking through the haze.
But it's easier to stay lost, to keep sinking, to let go of the weight of everything I've been carrying. In this blurry space, there are no mistakes, no disappointments, no eyes that watch and judge. Here, there's nothing. Just a quiet that almost feels like peace.
I don't want to go back. Not to the noise, the people, the eyes that never stop watching. But when I slowly open my eyes, the quiet is real, thick as a fog, sinking into my bones. I blink, the world coming back in soft fragments, blurred edges and whispers of light.
There's something strange about waking up to the sound of nothing, to the sight of my pristine white ceiling staring back at me as if it knows secrets I haven't even told myself. The silence stretches, strange and thick, like it's holding its breath, waiting for me to do something. I feel untethered, weightless, like I'm floating between dreams and reality, and for once, I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
I take a slow, careful breath, feeling the air settle into my lungs, and I almost flinch at how loud it seems in this silence. My senses sharpen, taking in every detail—the softness of the sheets, the gentle warmth of sunlight filtering through the curtains, the faint scent of something, something that makes my heart stutter.
I turn my head, and he's there, and he's so close I could reach out and touch him, feel the quiet warmth radiating from his skin. He's resting his head beside my hand, as if he's just ben waiting—waiting in the same quiet, weightless space I find myself in now. His hair falls across his forehead, strands catching the soft light, shadows dancing over the delicate curve of his closed eyelids, his glasses slightly askew, perched on the bridge of his nose like he'd forgotten they were ever there.
I can almost imagine he's part of some dream, lingering at the edge of reality.
There's something painfully gentle about the way he sleeps, as if he's surrendered every piece of armor he's ever worn. I've never seen him like this, so still, so bare, as though he's breathing in time with the room itself. I don't want to move. I don't want to shatter the fragile perfection of this instant, this fleeting pause in our worlds.
I let my gaze trace the slope of his shoulders, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of him slow and steady, like a lullaby that sways gently with the breeze.
I don't want to wake up. I don't want to break this spell. Not yet. Not while he's here, breathing in time with me, breathing in time with everything. Not while the world is still hushed as if it knows what we both need—just a little more time, just a little more of this quiet peace before the storm. And I... I want to be a part of it. I want to keep us here, where there's no rush, no expectation, just the sound of our hearts meeting in silence.
I want to stay here, like this. Just watching, letting myself believe that he's here for me, that he's chosen this small, quiet place beside me in the dark. Because somehow, in his presence, the weight of everything I've been carrying feels lighter.
But then he wakes up, of course, he does, and his breath catches, just a tiny flutter, a shift in the air that pulls me back from the dream of it all. His eyelids tremble before they open, slow and reluctant, as if he's not quite ready to leave the comfort of whatever space we've made here together. For a moment, he doesn't look at me directly, but then, just like that, his eyes find mine.
