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1:04am, my screensaver blinked. I slammed my laptop shut, exhaling sharply at the absurdity of my last practice test attempt. I slid off the kitchen stool and stomped to his room, hoping he wasn’t dead to the world yet.
Shifting my laptop, phone, and bottle into one arm, I cracked the door open to find the room dark; disappointing, but expected. He had a test tomorrow, I wouldn’t be leaving any later tonight.
The handle clicking shut, I let my eyes adjust to the dark and made my way around the now-familiar room, quietly picking up my things and slipping them into my bag. A heavy sleeper until he wasn’t. He was usually careful to shut the curtains, but they were askew just enough today for the lights from King’s street to cast a sliver onto his forehead. A perfectly aligned mishap, something he’d wrinkle his nose at, call out as too on-the-nose in a book. But he was asleep, and I was not so much a cynic as a silent admirer of art. Appreciator, emissary, evangelist, even.
I watched transfixed as his chest rose and fell, the long shadows of his lashes falling on his cheekbone. I recalled how soft his skin felt under my touch- how my thumbs had smoothed over cheeks framed by a straight nose, narrow cheekbones and pretty eyes. His eyes were my favourite shade of brown, the exact hue of the coloured pencil I'd always refused to touch while wearing all my others down to nubs. Ironic that I never touched it, now that I saw it reflected in my favourite person’s eyes every day.
Those eyes now resting, mole-dappled eyelids I’d kissed countless times fluttering in his sleep. Eyes that had witnessed so much. A gaze that had always held my own as intently as I had his. The mouth that had kissed my forehead to soothe me, to wish me sweet dreams, to send me to sleep so many times. I stood frozen in place.
I wondered when the last time he’d kissed me good night was.
We hadn’t had any time together in the last month- exam season and final projects and work piling up had rendered any time outside of university work nearly exclusive to sleep. If it wasn’t work or sleep, it was figuring out what to eat, or stressing about work while procrastinating on it. Napping in a giant pile with our friends on the kitchen couch like we had early on during first semester now seemed like a faraway dream now- only months later. I was tired. I missed his arms around me.
I wanted to kiss him good night.
Freshly washed hair falling over his forehead, nearly on this side of too-long. He’d showered before he went to bed, I noted. He smelled like shampoo and the soap I’d gifted him. My stomach clenched; I missed holding him like this so much. My heart lurched at the realisation that I hadn’t been held by him in nearly a whole month.
I didn’t grasp what I’d done until my hand retracted in what felt like a daze; absentmindedly brushing the hair out of his eyes when I had done it so many times before had made me ignore the fact that he was currently very asleep.
I jerked back, cursing silently- what if he had woken up? He had a test tomorrow. And he was a light sleeper when he was stressed. What if he did badly on his test because he didn’t get any sleep because of me?
I watched for movement with bated breath, but it didn't come.
I tiptoed back, turning to leave, when suddenly, he shifted onto his side and the sliver of light on his forehead bloomed onto half of his face. The light on his cheekbone threw a brilliant angle onto his cheek. The harsh contrast sharpened shadows that were otherwise lent hazy softness in the midnight eigengrau. His eyelashes lengthened, now all sharp contours and divine art; this unearthly beauty-turned-creature of chance, borne witness only by me.
My heart stopped short at the sight. He was breathtaking.
I kneeled, settling on the ground beside his bed. Staring at the face I knew so well, now sketched in monochrome. I leaned in, touching nothing but the length of skin previously lit by the sliver of light. As if to offer gratitude for illuminating the face of my love in a way I had never appreciated it before. Breathing softly, I placed the lightest of kisses onto his now-shadowed forehead.
And if the angel that guarded me could read minds, they’d reiterate the love on my lips, their chants counted on a rosary, to his angel. I may not know anything of god, but I know mortal love. I know it is an act of labour only understood by those who live and breathe it. Angelic chanting could never compare to the holy veil of silence between us.
I took one last look at him, committing the sight to memory before the will to leave for the night escaped me. Turning to the door, I heard it.
A shift of breath, at most. He sighed. It sounded like the entire world's worth of weight leaving him.
He should have been dead asleep. My cheeks burned, the skin at my ears and neck stinging with heat. The steadiness in his breathing couldn’t lie. I held my breath, waiting for his voice to ring out into the quiet, to ask if I was there. My mind raced, trying to find any differences between his breathing now and the countless times I’d slept next to him. He couldn’t be awake. Still, I hesitated.
It was always a sore choice, one between having his company for a few more minutes, or leaving right then. I had to leave at some point anyway, I'd remind myself, and it'd be better to have gotten some sleep, at least, instead of none at all if I refused to leave. I chose to stay more often than not.
I grabbed my bag and coat, half-shoving my feet into my shoes, and walked out into the unwelcome hallway light. It was 2:00am already.
We had tests tomorrow. With any luck, he’d remember it as only a dream.