[ The worst part about it is that she knows it's stupid. That it's digging in between her shoulder blades, leaving salt and sand to grate the skin there raw. Picking at the back of her mind. Refusing to let her slip off to sleep. Because she's forgotten to do something. Something she's done every night. For years and years now. So much that it's instinct, more than action; like she's forgotten to breathe in.
She doesn't need to do that, but it keeps catching. Sharp, insistent, impatient, in her bones, like her skin is too tight. Like if she closes her eyes for too long, this won't be real. Not their family finding each other, and not stopping the end of the world, and not ... everything. Like she'll open her eyes, and she'll be somewhere else. Somewhere that she can't sleep without doing it.
Like opening her eyes doesn't just remind her of the bitter biting reverse, too. Of the sheer emptiness of the big bed she's in, that's missing Ray's body, warm and close, comfortingly solid. Of the blistering, empty silence that isn't being playfully, affectionately, goaded into calming down, going to sleep. Being told she's beautiful. Loved. The luckiest, best part of someone's life
She doesn't want to close her eyes. She doesn't want to open them.
She so tired, but that itch just digs, regardless of reality.
Of all the laughter, and fielding Klaus and Diego, and dinner and talking through light game plans for the coming week. Of eating more familiar, modern food than she needed to and wanting to curl around the middle of herself like a snake and gestate on it forever. After these last six days, and appearing here instead of home, they deserve it.
But she can't. The silence needles at her. The silence that could make the world outside this room, this bed, anything. Like a child dreaming up nightmares in the dark, while refusing to move at all and ruffle the curtains for the world's universal night light. Because even that would be too real, would make it all feel like it isn't real, too. It's too quiet. Just. Too. Quiet. So quiet, it could just be her. Still, and alone, in the darkness, again. With only herself. Her real self. Deep in her bones. Like always.
It's the first time she reaches for it, without cringing. Maybe because she doesn't want to turn over and reach for the communicator charging on her bedtable. Like that would be giving in. Like somehow this isn't. It's not entirely surrendering. It's just ... cheating, a little, when the Mental Network box blinks to life against her vision even in the dark she's still staring into with half-lidded eyes, and she types only three letters. ]
Aug. 14th, late { you would still miss me in your bones
She doesn't need to do that, but it keeps catching. Sharp, insistent, impatient, in her bones, like her skin is too tight. Like if she closes her eyes for too long, this won't be real. Not their family finding each other, and not stopping the end of the world, and not ... everything. Like she'll open her eyes, and she'll be somewhere else. Somewhere that she can't sleep without doing it.
Like opening her eyes doesn't just remind her of the bitter biting reverse, too. Of the sheer emptiness of the big bed she's in, that's missing Ray's body, warm and close, comfortingly solid. Of the blistering, empty silence that isn't being playfully, affectionately, goaded into calming down, going to sleep. Being told she's beautiful. Loved. The luckiest, best part of someone's life
She doesn't want to close her eyes.
She doesn't want to open them.
She so tired, but
that itch just digs,
regardless of reality.
Of all the laughter, and fielding Klaus and Diego, and dinner and talking through light game plans for the coming week. Of eating more familiar, modern food than she needed to and wanting to curl around the middle of herself like a snake and gestate on it forever. After these last six days, and appearing here instead of home, they deserve it.
But she can't. The silence needles at her. The silence that could make the world outside this room, this bed, anything. Like a child dreaming up nightmares in the dark, while refusing to move at all and ruffle the curtains for the world's universal night light. Because even that would be too real, would make it all feel like it isn't real, too. It's too quiet. Just. Too. Quiet. So quiet, it could just be her. Still, and alone, in the darkness, again. With only herself. Her real self. Deep in her bones. Like always.
It's the first time she reaches for it, without cringing. Maybe because she doesn't want to turn over and reach for the communicator charging on her bedtable. Like that would be giving in. Like somehow this isn't. It's not entirely surrendering. It's just ... cheating, a little, when the Mental Network box blinks to life against her vision even in the dark she's still staring into with half-lidded eyes, and she types only three letters. ]
hey