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Quietly, he opens the door and peers into the darkened room. The light from the street lamps below barely suffices to illuminate the room since it is located on the second floor. But his eyes have already grown accustomed to the darkness, and the white blanket covering the sleeping figure stands out clearly against the rest of the room. Gently, he places one foot in front of the other, knowing perfectly well which floorboards creak and which don't. The figure on the bed is still and peaceful, its chest rising and falling slowly and evenly.
Suddenly, the figure turns onto its side – he stops, frozen, and observes, hesitates, but the figure simply seems to continue its sleep. His presence remains unnoticed – just as he had intended it to be. With great caution, he continues until he reaches the side of the bed. Carefully, so very carefully, he sinks to his knees to study the sleeping face in front of him. Their faces are close, close enough that each exhaled breath from the sleeping figure brushes softly over his own face. The ash blonde hair is dishevelled from restless sleep – another nightmare? He hasn't been able to collect enough data about the frequency of the nightmares yet. He'll have to return, certainly. One should never theorize without all the facts.
His hand rises, almost as if it has a mind of its own, to smooth those spiky strands, but in mid-movement, he suddenly pauses – this is forbidden. Unwanted. Dangerous. His hand drops – as does his head. His eyes are fixed on the floor, but what he sees is a happy couple, dancing in a tight embrace, heads inclined towards each other. Smiling faces and looks filled with love – but they're not meant for him. Never for him. Slowly, he rises, head hanging and shoulders drooping. He tiptoes to the door and allows himself one last look at the sleeping figure. He lingers in the doorway. No, this has to end now, enough is enough. With a disgusted shake of the head he turns away and closes the door behind him. With a barely audible click, the door falls shut.