Tired Lines; Soonhoon

01

☽

1:08 am.

Jihoon's bones feel heavy as he slides into a booth, one of those meant for a single person. His eyes burn against the glare of his laptop despite the screen being as dim as it can be, and he's wondering why he didn't just bring a book - but then he remembers that he can't read more than one sentence without spacing out and losing his train of thought.

So, to put it simply, the situation at hand is not comfortable. Even if the cushion he's sitting on is soft and the heating inside is just right and the overhead lights aren't too bright, and the atmosphere is quiet - Jihoon isn't comfortable. He hasn't been, for some nights. He hasn't slept for some nights. 

And it wasn't weird, not at first. Jihoon often went through periods of sleeplessness, where he'd face some bout of insomnia for a week or two and then sleep fine for the next month, until he hit that block again. But this block, this time around, is particularly hard to get past. It's been three weeks and Jihoon's pretty sure running on three hours of sleep and more than a few double espressos every day isn't the healthiest habit to be getting into, but it's not like he can help it, you know? No matter how deliriously sleep-deprived he may be, sleep never comes. It can feel moments away, just grazing his fingertips, and it'll be snatched from him in an instant. Sleeping feels easy up until he actually tries to fall asleep - and fuck, it's not like he wants to deal with that.

That's concern number one, right there. Insomnia's a bitch. Number two, however, comes in the form of a lovely barista with crescent eyes and the prettiest smile Jihoon's ever seen; it's gotten to the point where said barista has memorized Jihoon's name, and yes, it is slightly embarrassing, but damn it if he isn't going to coup himself up in the warmest corner of the café for the next three hours for the eighth night in a row. Damn it, he will.

Even if he knows something's wrong with him. Even if that perfect stranger knows it, too.

4:27 am.

Jihoon likes that this barista also, seemingly, has the shittest sleep schedule on the planet. Maybe he's a little worried - does he sleep during the day? - but in these still, quiet moments, when he's waiting for exhaustion to finally take over, Jihoon likes watching the strange boy behind the counter. He likes letting his eyes close partially, and making out the fuzzy form from beyond his eyelashes. He moves his feet in patterns that are too mesmerizing to not be calculated, and sometimes he murmurs along a tune that's too quiet for Jihoon to make out. It's nice, either way. He's nice.

Jihoon knows he's being very, very silly - but he also doesn't remember what eight full hours of sleep feel like, so maybe silly is justified.

That's what he's telling himself as he trudges home that night, finally feeling like maybe he'll be able to pass out on his mattress for a little while.