The Beginning

Phil

I am usually the first one to wake up.

I get out of bed, put on my glasses, and quietly walk down the hall to Dan's bedroom. I crack open the door and stand there for a bit, watching his chest rise and fall. He is so peaceful, so quiet.

I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing about Dan I do not find beautiful. Even his snore, even drool on his chin, even the crust in the corner of his eyes, or his poor posture, or his natural mess of hair. He is, to me, a work of art. A masterpiece. I swear, I could stand there all day and just watch him. I wish I could. I want to climb into bed with him, and sleep next to him. I wish he was dreaming about me.

But he doesn't know I watch him. And he doesn't think about me that way.

So I leave, and go to the kitchen. I put some water in the kettle, and dig out a box of chamomile and ginger tea bags from the cupboard.

I sit at the window, staring out into the grey city of London. The streets are flooded with cars, and every crack and dent in the pavement has become a small puddle. I stare out into the pale, dismal sky, and try to forget how to feel for a while. I've never been an expert at dismissing my feelings, and I've never really wanted to, but today, it's what I want more than anything else in the world. As I am staring into the blank void, I hear Dan's door open.

"Well look who finally got up." I say, as he enters the room, rubbing his eyes.

"Morning."

"There's some tea in the kettle. We ran out of coffee."

"Great!" he says, rolling his eyes. "Thanks though."

His voice is groggy and soaked with sleep. His hair is an absolute mess; some straight, some wavy, and he has light grey bags under his eyes. I wonder why, because he looked like he had gotten such a sound sleep. I mean, yeah, he usually falls asleep late, but he slept in so late this morning... I don't know, but I do know this: I need to stop letting him occupy my mind with the simplest of things. He squints his eyes; he has caught me studying his features. I look away. "It's over," I think, his voice in my mind. I repeat it, hoping it will eventually feel more real.

It's been over a year. I need to let go.

"It's over."

"It's over."

"It's over."