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You don’t get how John sleeps at night so soundlessly.
He’s huddled up underneath a blue comforter, head close to your hip as he lies on his stomach, the juts of his spine sticking out black keys on a piano. His face is hidden by hair and a pillow, the only visible features being his freckled specked cheeks. His body rises and falls with breath, just like his aspect and sometimes you wish you could just move on from the game as easily as it seems to come to him.
(You know it isn’t easy on him either, but at least he can sleep at night.
This happens to you a lot).
You can feel your eyes droop with drowsiness, but sleep is a burden to you. Every time you close your eyes, sometimes even when you’re just blinking, flashes of it come back to you. You swear you can hear the ticking of a clock in your subconscious sometimes. If it’s hot outside during the day, it feels like your skin’s going to burn away and that you’ll turn into ash and bones and the thought of that scares you more than you wish it did.
You try not to leave your place during the day. You’ve always preferred the night anyway.
It feels like the hours in a day go buy quicker than its night but you know it doesn’t. It’s the same every day, you know, because you count the tick, tick, tick and it’s starting to give you a headache.
Absently, you run your fingers through your boyfriend’s hair, smoothing it back so that you can see his closed eyelids; it might also be to pass the time, you’re not quite sure anymore. Thinking clearly is much more difficult now that you’ve barely slept four hours in the past week.
You don’t really know if you can’t sleep anymore.
You’re not quite sure of anything right now.