The Beginning

Dan

(EARLIER THAT MORNING)

The corner of my laptop reads 3:26 AM. I close it, and lean my head back on my pillow, listening. Phil is in the other room; I can hear him snoring. My eyes ache from staring at a screen all night. I close them, hug the other pillow, and imagine it's him next to me. I imagine his arms around me, my head on his chest, and the feeling of him breathing. 

I refuse to admit I need him, even though I know I do.

I manage to drift into sleep several times, but I am awakened by the fact that my heart is beating out of my chest. No words can describe how much I want him here with me right now. This time, I sleep lightly, for about 3 hours. 

When I wake up next, it is 8:13. I stay in the same position, drooling slightly on my pillow. My mother calls me a messy sleeper. I am just about to turn onto my other side, when I see him. His reflection is it the picture on the wall, and he is standing there, sheepishly smiling, like he is subtly scolding himself for being here. He is watching me sleep. His eyes feel like the sun on my skin, and I close my eyes as I bathe in the warmth of his gaze. There is nothing I want more than him to come inside, and crawl into bed with me. I want him to hold me. 

I wonder why he is watching me sleep. He looks conflicted, like he is studying me for some school project. I can't imagine he thinks of me the same way I think of him; he is probably just doing something else. But, god, I wish he could know what I'm thinking right now. I wish he was thinking the same thing. I wish we never ended things.

But we did, and he doesn't think of me in that way anymore. So, I close my eyes, and pretend he isn't there.

Eventually, though, he leaves. Half an hour later, I decide it is safe to go to the kitchen, and see him without without appearing miserable. "It's over," I remind myself. 

"Well look who finally got up." He says, his voice bright, but still a bit hoarse.

"Morning." I say, my voice cracking slightly. Yes, it's been over a year, but, yes, the absence of him still pains me."

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

"Great!" I say, rolling my eyes. I wonder if that hurts him, but my mind suddenly snaps back into reality. He probably doesn't read into what I say that much anymore. "Thanks though." I add, trying to put my nerves at ease. 

I have come to the conclusion that I care too much. And, yes, I know that sometimes people are more sensitive than others, but that isn't the case with me. I embarrass myself all the time, my fucking belt doesn't even work, but, dammit, I have never felt so vulnerable until now; him next to me on the couch, staring into my eyes. I wonder what he is thinking, trying to be optimistic. I wonder if he is trying to figure out how to tell me he loves me.

But he doesn't. He simply turns away, gluing his eyes to something else; something more important than me. I stare at my hands in my lap.

It is now that it feels real:

It's over.