after all these years

One

"You're tired?" Her voice was cold, nothing like the warm, inviting tone of before. Eyebrow cocked in disbelief, she scoffed. Mark could only watch the light of her computer shift off her hair as she moved. He just wanted to sleep. "Neither of us believe that, Mark."

"I'm telling the truth!" His eyes shifted from her hair to the webcam, trying to convince her of something she should've taken at face value. "I had a really long day today, and I don't -"

Shaking her head, she cut him off. "Just say you don't love me anymore." Mark didn't say anything about how obviously fake her teary voice was. "You... Think I'm gross. You think I'm disgusting. I'll just leave then -"

"No!" The word came out before he could stop himself. She was all he had. "No, I don't think you're gross." His throat ached as he swallowed and the computer light reflected off the wall behind her, illuminating a glossy poster. "I'll - I'll do it."

A small smile played on her lips, and she sat back in her chair to watch the show. "Good."

Mark sits up with a start, breath clogged in his throat. He's at home, in his room. Away from her. Away from that room and that computer and that app and that goddamn smile.

Amy shifts in the bed next to him, and her presence helps ground him in the present. He's safe here - he doesn't need to worry about anything anymore. She's not here, she can't hurt him.

Slowly, he creeps out of the bed, careful to plant his socked feet solidly on the floor as he stands. A glass of water is so tempting right now, and it's late enough that he doubts Amy will wake up.

His socks make a quiet shuffling noise as he makes his way to the kitchen, and he chooses to focus on that rather than the hazy memories wafting through his brain. It's easier, and keeps him from breaking down completely.

The rest of the night is spent on autopilot, going from the kitchen to the various other rooms in his house like a ghost. Sleeping seems like an impossibility, and he's too restless to focus on much else. It isn't a surprise when the sun rises and he's still awake, staring listlessly at the wall.

The door behind him opens quietly, and Amy peeks her head inside. "Good morning," she hums, flashing him a blinding smile. Her voice startles him out of his daze, and he blinks wearily up at her. "How early did you get up?"

"Oh, just an hour or so ago," he lies. The last time he checked the clock it had been two in the morning, and if the blinking red numbers on the clock are anything to go by, it's now seven. Had he really been checked out for that long?
Amy bites her lip and walks over to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. His throat clogs again, and the burning on his shoulder makes him want to scream. "Are you sure? You seem tired."

"You're not tired. You just don't love me."

"I'm not tired!" He shot back, eyes widening. The chair knocks into the desk as he whips around, and he winces at the harsh bang of the wood against metal. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you think I was tired. I'm not. Tired."

The hand that was on his shoulder now hovers at her side, and he briefly wonders if he hurt her by spinning around so fast. "What?" There's a strange lilt in her voice. Is she mad at him? "You seem tired Mark, are you sure?" The overhead light bounces off her hair as she moves closer, and suddenly Mark can't breathe.

"Prove it."

Her skin is warm when he touches it, and he hopes she can't feel the way his hands tremble. The soft pink shorts she's wearing brush against his legs as he pulls her closer to him, and a part of him wishes she was wearing anything else. They're too nice to be ruined for him like this.