Work Text:
You found it strange that even with the little routines and constants your everyday life is, you managed to find some arbitrary value in the in-betweens of it all. It’s said that humans are always drawn to patterns, predictable elements with foreseen events, and avoid sudden changes. Yet, each miniscule alteration in a lifetime of schedules is what makes every waking moment significant, isn't it?
Mornings have been drab for weeks now.
Your phone alarm blares out, and your eyes, heavy with permanent eye bags, open with great effort before shutting them again–you were far too tired. You let out a groggy groan, rolling over onto the empty space beside you, searching for your phone, hidden somewhere among the pillows and covers. It takes a few moments, but you manage to find your phone; with half-lidded eyes, you smash your thumb into the snooze button, and savor the few more minutes of peaceful sleep.
By the third time you’re about to hit snooze, you decide that getting yelled at for being late by your boss wasn't worth the extra fifteen minutes of sleep. You sit up in a bed far too big for one person, before shuffling out of the sheets. Your vision is greeted by a black and white stuffed bunny on your nightstand–a carnival prize gifted to you. Your mouth sours upon the sight.
Grabbing your phone, only to then realize you forgot to charge it last night, you let out an expletive, tempted to throw your device at the nearest wall. Out of instinct, your thumb taps on the screen, your notifications popping up. There's still no text message awaiting you.
There hasn't been for weeks.
You shut off your phone before trudging your way to the bathroom, and start your morning routine. Wash your face, brush your teeth, and then shower. As you brush your teeth mindlessly, your attention remains on the two toothbrush holders. Only one of them is in use. Spitting out the bitterness, you wash your brush and turn on the shower faucet to cold.
You peel the hood off of you slowly, before bringing it to your nose. It stopped smelling of her after the first week. Your eyes water a bit as your stomach churns. You wipe away any evidence of lingering feelings, chucking the hoodie into the hamper along with the rest of your clothes.
In the shower, there's two different brands of shampoo. You consider throwing one of them away, but like always, you couldn't bring yourself to. Instead, like clockwork, you take the other bottle, lifting the cap and smelling it. You put the bottle back on the shower caddy.
After you finish washing yourself, you shut the shower, get dressed and make your way through the apartment to the kitchen. You pass by portraits hung on the wall, photos of you and her. You refuse to look at them.
Mechanically, you go into your pantry to pull out your box of sugary cereal and then to the fridge for your carton of milk. On the fridge, there's a sticky note reminding you to eat at work and that there was your favorite takeout place's leftovers still in the fridge. It's dated 6 weeks ago. You stare at the sticky note for several minutes, the urge to crumple it into a ball overpowered by the heavy weight on your shoulders and the lump in your throat. Instead, you open your fridge to get your stupid milk.
You stopped liking your shitty cereal and stupid 2% milk three weeks ago, but you're far too tired to change it. You used to like how sugary it was, but now it's sickeningly sweet to the point where you feel like vomiting.
You fucking hate mornings.
You eat your sad breakfast and grab your bag, before driving to work. Your car still reeks of cigarettes and smoke, but you don't smoke. In your open glove compartment is her lighter.
Sometimes you consider buying a pack of cigarettes yourself. You get the appeal now.
At work, you're just as distracted, sneaking off into your bathroom breaks to scroll through your photos, your finger hovering over the little trash can icon. You never go through with it. Instead you pull up your message app, having to scroll thrice to reach the contact you're looking for.
‘Arle.’
Everytime you open the chat, you hope you'd see the animated three dots that hover over your textbox. There never is. Your fingers move involuntarily as you generate the same text you never send.
‘I miss you.’
Your cursor blinks after the period for several moments, before you backspace, deleting the text message altogether. You go back to work.
Your coworker shares their concerns over you: how you haven't taken an off day for at least a month now. You wave them off. There was no one to spend that extra time with anyways.
Work almost goes by too quickly then you'd like. On your drive back home, you see a familiar cafe. Having nothing else to do today, you spontaneously decide that you'd like to drown your sorrows away with your favorite dessert, and you'd pair it with black coffee that will burn off your tongue.
You get in line, waiting for your time to order before you feel a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you freeze at the person before you, breath hitching and eyes widening.
“Arle–...Arlecchino,” you quickly correct yourself. “What are you doing here?”
She's the same, expectedly. Still wearing that leather jacket that she's always partial to, her expression as stoic as ever, and you could still smell the cologne she always uses. Except, she's wearing sunglasses. During the fall season. The more you squint, the more you realize it's your sunglasses that she's wearing over her eyes.
The small gasp before she answers betrays her stoicism. “The same as you.”
“I can take who's next,” the cashier interrupts, and you grind your teeth irritatedly. After ordering your items, you sit down at the table, your eyes on her the entire time. Instead of sitting down, she chooses to wait by the pick up station. She must be in a hurry, you think to yourself, swallowing thickly. Maybe off to someone new.
Once your name is called you get up to get your items, then go back to your table, looking forward to wallowing by yourself. You watch Arlecchino pick up her items. From here, she always orders a cold brew with the occasional toasted bagel sandwich, and you're right. She walks away from the counter with a paper bag and drink in hand, heading towards the exit as if you were never there in the first place. Arlecchino stops at the door, before pivoting around, heading towards your table.
You hate that your heart skips a beat, a lingering hope still present in there.
She goes to your table, locking eyes with you (or so you presume, with the sunglasses still on her) and asking a wordless question through her gaze alone. You slowly nod, pushing your items closer to you as she seats herself.
Arlecchino is the first to break the silence. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
It's hard to continue a conversation after that. You scramble for anything to converse about but your mind blanks to nothing. You hate that you can't see her expressions; hate the fact that the sunglasses block out her eyes when you want to know whether she's struggling as much as you are. Or does she even care? You wish you knew.
“How are you,” you ask with a wince at such a bland question.
Arlecchino lets out a sigh, as if someone whose experienced a lifetime of pain, before she takes off her sunglasses–your sunglasses. You're greeted with a new sight of Arlecchino you've never seen before. Exhaustion clings to her eyes, matching eye bags to yours.
“As well as one can be,” she answers, taking a sip of her coffee deliberately. You take note that she no longer closes her eyes to savor it–just takes a sip.
“Yeah,” is all you can provide.
“You look well,” Arlecchino says, but you both know it's a lie. “Have you been eating well?”
You shake your head. Instead of telling her ‘fine’ for so reason, your mouth opts for, “I've been eating that shitty cereal you always hated a lot.”
“The one I told you that wasn't healthy to eat so often?” She inquires.
“Yeah. That one. You used to make me breakfast every morning just so I would stop eating them,” You reminisce, your throat swelling and the corner of your eyes burning.
“The eggs and bacon?” Although it's framed like a question, it's more of a statement.
“Yeah…” You respond. Not wanting to end the conversation, you quickly add, “You never peppered or salted your eggs.”
“You know I hate too much seasoning.”
“Your bacon was always chewy rather than crunchy.”
Arlecchino purses her lips. “Chewy bacon is as acceptable as crunchy.”
“You're a shit cook, y'know?” You say, more objective than it is subjective. Arlecchino knows this.
“I know,” she admits with a softness she'd have around you.
The two of you remain silent, an unspoken questioning lingering between the two of you. You take a bite out of your pastry, suddenly craving the taste of shitty eggs and atrocious bacon again.
“Can you… make me… your stupid eggs and bacon again?” You hesitantly ask, your voice raw and vulnerable as you gaze at her longingly.
Arlecchino's breath hitches, before her lips quirk up into the faintest of smiles. “Yeah… I can do that.”