Red's Revenge || n.h.

5. Tremble {Niall}

5. Tremble {Niall}

►► “Atlas” by Coldplay

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I woke up to the sound of loud footsteps going up and down the stairs – and to something living – as in breathing, a beating heart and partly heavy – lying on my chest.

Wait.

“Sorry,” she whispered, pushing herself off of me and sitting up on the bed, her shoulders hunched forward. Her back was faced to me and her long, dark hair was messy due to the fact that she probably just woke up.

Earlier this morning, when we all decided to sleep after a whole night of waiting for the New Year (and after calling all the necessary people that we had to greet Happy New Year to), Yanna and I had this small argument over who sleeps where. She didn’t want to stay in the guest room with the rest of my relatives because she didn’t know anybody, and wanted to sleep inside my room. I offered her the bed because I could always get a sleeping bag – but she won the argument that I had to sleep also in the bed (because, honestly, there was just no room to place a sleeping bag). But we didn’t have to be directly sleeping beside each other: I got to lay my head on the foot of the bed while she took the usual place.

And now, snow was falling slowly outside, dim sunlight seeping into the window glass. Our relatives who came over probably are starting to go back to their own homes, whatever they’re going to have to do to get past the snow-capped road. The footsteps outside didn’t sound like they were going to stop anytime soon so, I just decided to sit up on my bed like Yanna.

Her hair was like a curtain, covering the side of her face to me. I frowned slightly, anxious. What was wrong? Her shoulders were hunched forward like she had some big problem she was carrying around them physically. Did she get another one of her bad dreams?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, now facing me and that’s when I notice that she’s crying.

A lump rose in my throat and I impulsively went closer to her, shoving the duvet aside and engulfing her into a hug. Yanna didn’t protest, and leaned her head against my shoulder, crying silently. I ran my hand through her hair, hoping that the gesture will make her feel better. I could feel my shirt soaking up a bit but I didn’t mind, and let her cry on; instead, I focus on the reason why she’s crying.

What would suddenly make her feel this way? Is it another one of her bad dreams? Back at my flat in London, she would often request to have me stay by her side until she fell asleep. She’s never told me on whatever happens in her bad dreams – being closed as she is – and when I ask her what was bothering her she just says that it’s the bad dreams. I never press on and ask on what it is, because I know she’d cry even more. She’s been in enough pain and she can get back to that if she wants to, not because I’m pressuring her to.

“It’s OK,” I mutter, still caressing her hair. “It’s OK.” But even I don’t feel convinced with my own words.

Yanna didn’t say anything, but her heaving slowly stopped. She didn’t lift her head off my shoulder though, and she didn’t say anything about me pausing from running my hand through her hair. I was only hugging her now, hoping that she’s fine now. Seeing people broken always have bothered me, and whenever I see people like them, I feel like I should be lifting up their spirits and somehow – if I can do something, even in the simplest way I can – make them feel better. Nobody deserves to be sad.

She sniffed and lifted her head off my shoulder, so I reluctantly let her go, my forehead already creasing with worry. Yanna wiped her tears away. “Another bad dream?” I asked softly.