Starlight

XIX: Dust and Ashes

Every time I turned away
From the things that might have healed me
How long have I been sleeping?
Did I ever look up
And see the moon and the stars and the sky?
Oh why have I been sleeping?

xx.xx

An alarm. 7:00.

Time to wake up, Henry.
But what's the point?
I've got no classes to teach today.
It's still the Christmas break.
It's New Year's Eve, in fact.
Ugh.
The awards ceremony is tonight.

The professor groaned at the thought and turned over in his bed, far too large for just him. It was a king size, brushed grey velvet: it had been stylish at one point.

Designing this place, designing this room... He had been so excited at the time. It was to become the habitat for what was left of humanity, if the worst ever did happen. He would live here with a partner, a family, safe from any and everything in the world that might be able to harm them.

What use had that been? Now he was just a lonely man in a cold bed.

He kicked the blankets from his body, exposing himself to the cold air. He grunted, burying his face in the pillow before heaving himself up and onto his feet.

Robbie must have gotten the letter by now.
She must have read it.
She must've gotten the letter and she must've read it and that meant that she must know how I feel about her.

The thought swirled around his head over and over again as he went about his daily routine, holding himself to the highest standards of hygiene and dress for nobody but himself. He pulled on his usual high-waisted trousers and a freshly laundered sweater, observing his figure in the fogged mirror in his bedroom.

He was tall and trim, but resented the delicate nature of his gait, wishing to be more masculine, stockier, more grounded. As for his face, well... no one at all could deny that he had aged extremely well. He looked particularly fresh for his mid forties, and somebody might be forgiven for thinking he was actually Robbie's age, but still, he noticed the thin lines being etched in his brow by the strong, clutching hand of his anxieties.

Lately, though... He had feared the world a little less.

He still believed that it was nearing its end, and he still much preferred the safety of his rooms, but that obsession had fallen to the wayside slightly. It had happened gradually at first: what harm could a trip out to a restaurant do? Then, what harm could he come to if he went to see Robbie's gig? He had grown braver and braver; he had even met her at a coffee shop when he could have met her at home. Just because she had asked!

Because, He thought, running a hand through his hair and throwing a pitying look toward the man in the mirror, Disappointing Robin Franks is fate a far worse than the end of the world.

And look what I've done now.

He floated through the house, at a loss for things to do: nobody to talk to, nobody to need him. He would have had a conversation with his Alexa, as he tended to do at the limits of his anxiety and loneliness; he knew it wouldn't compare to the little jokes and jabs, the compassion and the complete acceptance he always received from her.

I could compose.
But what for?
Who for?

With Robbie out of the picture - potentially forever - he had lost his desire to write. It had come and gone over the past twenty years he'd been locked away, ebbing and flowing with the memories of them: his old friends.

He stalked over to his desk, unlocking the drawer and reaching for the little frame at the bottom. He tried not to look at the photograph too much, lest he become consumed by the long-faded past: at the moment, however, he was entirely devoted to the quickly-fading future he might've been able to have with--