Six fifty five, the clock on her wall - still a pale yellow from her high school days - reads. Not 6:55. Six fifty five. Time is either not moving forward or it keeps moving back when she's not looking, because she swears it's been six fifty five for the past fifty minutes.
Her head drifts back up at the ceiling while she lays on her bed. It feels... She squirms trying to grasp just how she feels about it. Feels strange and uncomfortable lying here knowing that just last night she shared a bed with Quinn.
There is no point in trying to keep her legs still, because they won't stop. They're practically bouncing off the mattress with how anxious she is about calling Quinn when Quinn asked her to. She thinks back to when Quinn had asked if she would call her and the tone of voice Quinn used.
This phone call feels different than the first phone call she made Quinn. That call was an invitation to hang out. This call is to simply... Talk. It excites her in more ways than one, knowing that Quinn actually wants to stay on the phone with her for a while and chat for no other reason other than... Talking.
Six fifty seven. This clock has got to be kidding her. Staring hard at the hands of the clock, she wills it with all the mind power she has to move it forward.
Oh my god, she really needs to find a hobby.
Her father had said that an appropriate time to call is when Rachel knows Beth has been put to bed for obvious reasons. So she's sure Quinn isn't worrying over Beth; so she knows that Beth is cared for first.
Nine feels so far from six fifty seven.
She could look over her scripts again; or sing something; maybe watch a movie. But all those things seem dull at the moment. The one thing she wants to do is what she can't do right now and all other things lose any appeal they had.
She needs one of those eccentric hobbies that take up the person's life, like collecting the wrapper of only a specific flavor of a specific type of candy.
How pathetic she feels lamenting the fact that she really has to wait all this time. Deciding to do something, and change her current circumstances (because really, it is so sad), she rolls out of bed and walks to her desk. Her desk is sitting in front of her window, open to the world. It stands in the same place it always has, and looks just as old as she is; she feels both incredibly young and old at 21. The desk is white, with a charming old look like it's been used. And Rachel has used it throughout her years living in this room.
She used to use it for making crafts when she was younger. She'd sit on her knee on the matching white wooden chair and lean forward over her artwork. Her crafts had always been about musicals and girls with pretty dresses who find a charming man whose voice was made for hers. When she got a little older, she would sit here and practice writing her ABCs in cursive. Methodically, carefully, she'd draw out every curve of her 'R,' practicing so she would know how to write her autograph when others asked. Once she knew the alphabet, she would sit here again and work on her homework, or read. She wrote on a diary every day of her middle school years, while sitting in front of this desk. High school came about and she was gifted a laptop, which she had placed in the middle of the desk and used it for just about everything.
This desk had witnessed her growing up. She liked having a sturdy place to work on. She doesn't really know why - maybe for comfort and security. It's not like she ever had the need to feel secure, but it was there. She'd rather be perched over a book on this hard chair, than trying to read in bed and not really paying attention.
Rachel has always been about doing things and always being prepared, working hard to be the best. From childhood, until this very day, when she wants to set her mind to something and get it - she does. It's one of the things she's most proud about herself. Knowing how to work hard, and her desk is proof of it. Or a symbol for it or whatever.
