Chapter Text
You're wide awake, it's night.
Numbers from back and front. You've already tried every trick in the book. From breathing exercises to counting sheep. The Ambien pills your old therapist prescribed you or just a single cup of warm milk. But none of it really works. Every night it's a mess of static noise and overlapping thoughts bouncing around your skull like some sort of pinball machine. Until the ceiling starts to feel lower than it should and the walls feel like they're closing in. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face into the pillow. Try to breathe through it. That's the new plan.
Another night where you sink into the ocean. You know you're tired. So why can't you just fall asleep? Your body won't let you stay still. Your fingers twitch and your legs kick trapped in. Tangled between the mattress and sheets. You can’t stand the feeling of being in your own bed anymore. Old crumbs scratch at your back as you roll over them for the hundredth time.
"When did you even last eat in bed?" It's the new question invading your brain.
The quiet is too loud and thoughts are coming at you very fast. They are Indistinguishable. None of them makes any sense. You stare at the ceiling once again, at least relieved that it's back in its usual place. But you can’t do this. You can’t just lie in here doing nothing. Not while the bed still feels like quicksand and your whole body is screaming at you to get up, get up...(come on, come on (let's go))
Fuck it.
You hate being alone with your thoughts, their voice is always louder than yours.
You push off the covers and sit up so fast your vision blurs for a second. Distract your mind. Your room is a disaster. Everything seems so messily arranged.
So you slide the balcony door open and take a step outside.
Wind is on your side this night. You sit cross-legged down on the floor. The cheap linoleum freezes under you as you back against the textured wall. Your pajama pants are thin, but you like the feeling of the cold pressing through your skin. It bites. Makes you feel real. Makes you feel here. Even for a bit.
You stare out at the city and hear the occasional cars passing by. Dogs barking loud and stray cats having a life or death fight. You sigh and see your breath pass faintly in front of your eyes. Restless.
Once again, your hands move on their own, reaching into the pocket of your hoodie. The same one you promised your mother you wouldn't sleep in.
You're a fucking liar.
The first time you smoked less than three months ago. You fell into the trap of your own impulses. Cashier didn't ask for an ID. Your brain didn't ask for permission either.
Nobody knows what you do. And that kinda makes it worse. You hate doing shit behind your mother's back. But you don't want to disappoint her. No more than you already do.
She hates your low grades. If she sees you like this, she’d hate the rest of you too.
And you should've known there was a problem when the cigarette pack that used to last a week lasts less than a day now. But you pull one out anyway.
The first hit always feels sharp, like a smoke knife slicing down your throat. It crawls into your nose and burns everything on the way down.
You hate it.
You hate the taste. You hate the smell, the way it lingers in your hair... You don't even know why you're doing this. But you keep going. Keep selling the false promise to yourself, that it numbs the chaos in your brain for five minutes.
One drag to calm this thought. Another one to quiet down that one. Then another to sedate both. Until it stops hurting. Until you stop thinking. Until you get used to it.
Until it becomes just one more thing you endure.
A cough.
Dry. Sharp. Far.
But close enough to feel it graze the back of your neck.
Not from you.
Not from inside.
It comes from the balcony, maybe three stories away, maybe less.
You don't get up, you don't turn your head.
You don't need to.
You just know.
He's there.
He always is.
Same time. Same place. Always silent. Always alone.
You don't know his name.
You've never seen his face. Just a glimpse of his silhouette, once. Barely
But his presence is there.
Feels sad, yet calm.
Soothing.
Like a lullaby, one soft enough to finally drown your thoughts.
Sometimes, on nights like this, when the silence isn't so loud, you let yourself believe in something stupid.
Like, maybe he's here for the same reasons as you are.
Maybe he's not able to sleep either. Maybe he lights up and hates it too.
Maybe he doesn't know your name, but still knows you're there.
Maybe this is how people find each other.
Not through eye contact or using the same useless words you'll probably forget the same second after they slip out of your mouth.
Just a cough in the dark.
And the hope that someone hears it and stays by your side all night.
..That's probably wishful thinking.
You know it is.
But still.
It's always nice to imagine things.
You're not proud of yourself. You're not okay with your decisions. But at least you're breathing... Sort of.
And maybe, for tonight, that's enough.