He's sleeping right now. The only thing that separates us from engulfing in each other's warmth is the rigid screen of the laptop and the 3753 miles between us that constantly seem to lengthen more and more as each second passes by. It was quite unpredictable, him and I. He was like a whirlwind of inappropriate humour and coloured resistance and I was just a mere summer breeze. Nobody could've seen it coming.
His bed makes a slight creaking noise as he shifts his upper body. His hair is ruffled against his forehead in a way that doesn't just make him look younger, but it also makes him look more sorted out. The light from the screen hits his face at the right angles. It accentuates the scar under his eyebrow and the constellation of freckles that lay scattered across his slender nose. He has dark circles under his eyes. It makes me wonder about all the sleepless nights he spent alone in his room, thinking of the possible outcomes of his words. He always spoke at the wrong times, anyway.
Maybe he thought about me too. I don't know. But I hope he didn't. I'm not something he should lose his sleep over but I remember him telling me how he saw me in his dream that one time. I smile at the thought.
One thing I've noticed from this regular sleepovers of ours is that regardless of him always needing to be right, he sleeps his left side. One hand clutching the pillow and the other on his neck. He once told me that he liked the fact that he was alive and he liked knowing that, too. He checks his pulses while sleeping. It's poetic almost. He's sound asleep so I reckon his pulses are normal.
Normal.
Will his heartbeat remain constant when we meet? Will they reciprocate mine? Will he stumble on his feet, trying to catch his breath and calm his heart? Will he like me when he actually sees me?
Questions. They're even worse when you dread the answers.
I remember him asking me if I believed in fate. I remember telling him I didn't, only to hear him say that he did.
But what he doesn't know is that I lied.
I do believe in fate. I believe it brought us together for something we couldn't ever think of dealing with. He likes peanut butter and I'm allergic to it. He thinks winter is sadistic, I think it's magical. Only a higher power could assemble such a contrasting duo.
He's waking up, now. He rubs his fluorescent eyes and grumbles for a while. His elbow hits his laptop's screen, noticing me, he smiles. He asks me what I'm writing about. "You." He rubs his eyes and smiles. "Make me immortal."
