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He was meant to be okay. He was the capable one, the fun one, the silly one. He comforted the others. He breathed with Bojan when he panicked, he stayed on the line when Jan couldn’t sleep and his medication wasn’t working. He was happy and smart and why was nothing real anymore?
He watched the cigarette in his fingers burn down, down, down into a tiny nub, singeing his fingers. Even that pain didn’t register. He thought he was breathing. Could only be sure from the cloud of condensation billowing out with each exhale. The only proof there was air in his lungs.
Someone called his name, his body turned, his cigarette butt was dropped. He didn’t do anything. He felt his feet move, taking him forward, his smile plastered on, not quite able to reach his eyes but maybe no one would know. He didn’t tell his body to do anything, it just knew how to make sure the others didn’t worry.
He played, his head still buzzing, the music automatic. Nothing was real. The screaming crowds, the smooth wood in his hands. It was all behind glass, outside his bubble. It wasn’t real. Everything automatic, everything finished only because he had done it so many times before. Take a bow, take a bow to the surge and the sea of screams.
He needed a cigarette. He needed to see his breath. Outside was cold, outside he felt his lungs burn but he was still fuzzy, still wrong.
He thought about Jan, about that night that he’d stayed on the line as he drove to his house, forgetting to even put on shoes as he hoped to fine his friend still breathing on the other end. That had been a long night and Jure had never been sure if he was allowed to cry about it. If he had they right to say he was scared or if he had to be strong as he cleaned up the mess.
He knew what to do when it was others. When he could focus of getting water and blankets and giving hugs and putting away things that shouldn’t be out. He had a plan when it was others, the buzz in his mind stopped because he knew what to do.
His fingers were numb now and he didn’t know if it was from the cold or from his inability to feel anything at all. He didn’t know if he was shivering, if the wind nipped at his skin and pulled his hair. It must be, because his teeth were clicking uncontrollably. His cigarette had burned down to the end again and he didn’t know if he’d even taken a puff.