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Gangle has lost track of how long she’s spent pondering the weight of words unsaid.
And there are many words she could say.
You’re such a good friend to me.
You make me smile even when I shouldn’t be able to.
You always have the right thing to say.
Having you around makes me feel safe.
You’re so cool.
You’re so important to me.
I want to be like you.
I want to be with you.
She could go on.
She could go on and on, because there’s just so much to say, so much to admire about the object of her affection, and not enough words. To vocalize any of it would be to confront, in no uncertin terms, that Zooble is everything which Gangle is not. It would invite the possibility that Zooble would come to their senses and realize this fact to be true. That she would lose her dearest friend to the reality that she is a liability. So she keeps her lips pursed and continues to indulge in fantasy, in a world where she is worthy of the fondness Zooble shows towards her.
But there are moments where she wishes it would all come spilling out. Quiet, intimate moments where she could swear their hands are touching. Scared, exhausted moments where they lay collapsed on each others’ shoulders like the idea of separating is more frightful than anything Caine could conjure up. Evenings where time becomes a foreign concept and not a single word is exchanged between them, until the sun is already rising and it’s time to begin a new day. Gangle wouldn’t dare be so bold as to disturb their shared peace. But she’s much too sinful to stop herself from wondering what would happen if she did.
What would come of every wasted opportunity, of every brush of her hands that she could turn into a gentle squeeze, of every silent moment she could fill with everything she loves about Zooble. Maybe they would squeeze back. Maybe they would shatter the already paper-thin barrier of proximity between them. Gangle can’t quite imagine how it would be possible to kiss someone without a mouth, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. In fact, it’s almost better this way, like a challenge she has to overcome, and the innovation is a reward in itself. It’s enough to steal her breath just by thinking about it.
But that’s fantasy. Reality is much crueler, and she knows if she pushes her luck, she’ll lose the rare moments of peace she holds so dear. At least, that’s the excuse she uses to avoid taking that chance. So she doesn’t dare disturb them, and she lets those moments pass, and she keeps her words sealed within her wonders.
But wonders have their thorny sides, too. For every world where her feelings drive Zooble away, there could be another where they desperately need to know how much they’re cared about. Lord knows that was all that got her through, in a past life she struggles to remember, confined to a hospital bed and enduring unbearable pain for weeks on end. In a place as cyclical as this, it’s easy to forget there’s something worth fighting for. For all she knows, Zooble thinks they’re just another kooky avatar to her. For all she knows, every time she leaves without saying what’s on her mind, Zooble thinks she doesn’t care at all.
Which is how her wonders have gotten her here.
Staring up at someone who’s supposed to be around her height. Watching countless glowing eyes stare back, where there are only supposed to be two. Gangle has never gotten a good look at an abstraction before; the only one she’s seen was someone who appeared in the Circus and turned so quickly that she sometimes questions if they were even real. But the terror they caused left such a permanent enough scar on her psyche that she can’t even pretend to dismiss the memory as fantasy. It’s enough to paint a crystal clear picture in her mind’s eye now, paralyzingly real, waiting for her next move.
And there are so many moves she could make.
She could fall to her knees and cry out from the despair of losing the one thing that mattered to her in this simulated hellscape, because what else is she expected to do?
She could finally say everything she kept imprisoned in her mind, now that it means nothing. You’re so beautiful, because it would have been true. I love you, because there could be no consequences for the admission. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, because maybe that would have kept them here.
She could do the one thing she was told not to do under any circumstance and reach out to touch it. She could wrap her arms around where her dearest friend used to be and softly caress what remains, because what does it matter now if she’s rejected? Whatever would come of her belated bravery, Zooble wouldn’t be coming back.
Her mind latches on. Maybe the others are wrong about abstractions. Maybe Zooble would lean into her touch like they’re begging for it. Maybe they would stay with her for as long as she wanted, showing forgiveness for her cowardice being the cause of their irreversible suffering, yet serving as a constant reminder. Or maybe the others were right. Maybe she would start to turn, too, as reality sets in and the image of having to continue on without her love becomes clearer and clearer.
She thinks that sounds right. She couldn’t bear to keep living in a world where she could have prevented this, if not for her words unsaid. If Caine wanted to take away the one thing that mattered to her, he would have to take them both. So she would lean all the way in and embrace the way it tears her body apart, with an imagined agony she knows she would deserve. She would say everything she should have said the entire time, endless rambling about how everything there is to love about Zooble, just in case they’re still around to hear. She can’t say she knows what would happen next. But it would be what she deserves.
Crack!
The sound of fracturing porcelain rings through Gangle’s imagined ears. Stability she didn’t even know she was feeling is ripped away from her in tandem with her comedy mask sliding off her face and falling unceremoniously onto her pristine covers. One half remains upside down in front of her, while the other tumbles further until it rolls off the side of her bed, and more shattering sounds are heard.
“I just got that replaced,” she wallows aloud to no one. “Now I’m stuck like this until morning.”
Though, who does she have to blame for that? Why would she ever even think of something as horrible as her friend abstracting? Why would she keep going even though she knew it was upsetting her? If she’s so convinced this is going to happen, why won’t she just say something instead of continuing to wonder what would happen if she didn’t?
Gangle rolls over in her bed and shoves her tear-riddled tragedy mask into one of her many pillows. The comically large water droplets are quick to soak into the plush fabric and render it itchy to the touch, despite her lack of skin to irritate. The sensation is so familiar to her now, from her many, many nights of falling into this same trap, that it can only serve to plunge her deeper into her melancholy.
Just say something, she urges herself. You can see what will happen if you don’t, and it’ll be all your fault, so just get up and say something.
The stuffy weight brought on by her tragedy mask makes each of her ribbons feel like dumbbells. She can push herself up just enough to shuffle to the edge of her bed, but falls roughly to the ground the moment gravity isn’t there to support her anymore. The thought occurs to her that maybe she’s already too late, and her horrible fantasies have come true, and her best friend is already gone and there’s nothing she can do about it. It’s so heavy that she can’t help but curl into the fetal position and watch her tears pool onto the floor, but it’s so frightening that every inch of her body is alight like firecrackers, begging for movement.
She doesn’t know why she’s acting like this isn’t how the majority of her nights end up. Maybe if she stopped being so dramatic, she could skip past the “Maybe I should check on them just in case” song and dance that not even she believes anymore and get to the part where she and Zooble are sitting silently against their bed and watching time pass. Maybe if she stopped being so dramatic, she could get to that part before the hours of watching her best friend forget how loved they are like a movie in her head. Is it really so hard for her to just say “I want to spend time with you”? Though, if she’s so pathetic that her idea of spending time together is staring at a wall and trying not to say something stupid, maybe they need this self-pitying ruse to make it somewhat worthwhile. Give Zooble something to do so she doesn’t bore them to abstraction, even if “something” is coddling her like a baby. Not that she particularly minds when their nights end up like that.
If she doesn’t go find Zooble right now, she’s going to explode from self-loathing or humiliation. She doesn’t want to find out which would happen first.
Getting up is hard with the thick sadness that runs through her like sludge, but she manages. She’s done this so many times that she can just let her limbs run through the motions themselves. Stumble out the door, veer left across the hallway, push inwards on the doorknob three times so Zooble knows it’s her. That’s it.
So she stumbles out the door, and then Zooble is right in front of her, a talon-like arm piece raised in the air and curled into a loose fist. The shock of being yanked from her autopilot is almost more jarring to Gangle than being inches away from the face she had imagined both kissing and watching deconstruct in the same evening. The forces combined are enough to send her tumbling back onto the floor with a squeal.
“S[%$!#]t, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Zooble mutters in one long breath. They stumble around a bit before leaning heavily to the right to regain their own centre of balance. Moving carefully to appease their rickety limbs, they bend down and offer a hand to Gangle. Despite that this would be far from the first time their hands have touched, the idea of such contact right now has her face running so hot that she’s sure it’s showing through her mask.
“I-it’s fine!” Gangle replies a little too enthusiastically as she scoots away, until her back has hit the side of the bed. “What are you, um… doing here?”
Nice job, that sounded stupid, her inner critic is quick to follow her up. If Zooble felt similarly, they don’t let it show, instead scratching sheepishly at the back of their head. “I heard something fall, so I just thought…”
They allow themselves to trail off. Their gaze, which was previously glued to the floor, meets Gangle’s for the first time. She watches their eyes flood with concern, with a magnitude that only theirs can, as they register the sight of her tragedy mask. They glance over towards the shattered remnants of her comedy mask on the floor, then back at her, with an expression that practically begs her to bear her entire heart for them to see. If she could be half as good at conveying entire sentences through facial expressions alone, she thinks she may not have to worry so much about what should and shouldn’t be said.
“Are you okay?” Zooble asks when she doesn’t break the silence, and even the tone of their whisper is heavy like a sledgehammer coming down on her emotional walls.
Gangle manages a nod, but she knows she isn’t fooling anyone. So she follows it up by flimsily wiggling her ribbon hand in a so-so motion.
“Can I…?” Zooble grabs hold of the doorknob, and suddenly, Gangle’s nods become enthusiastic. They gently shut the door behind them and move to scoop the obsolete mask pieces into their arms. She watches as they gingerly clasp even the most minuscule shards between their fingers, as if the useless pile of junk they’re collecting is still a part of her being. Maybe in the early days of her arrival at the Circus, she would have seen it the same way. Even despite Zooble’s uncaring demeanour, their optimism has lasted a lot longer than hers.
It isn’t until they decide their deep clean is satisfactory and sit down beside Gangle that more words are exchanged between them. “What are you going to do with that?” She asks, head barely peeking out from between her knees.
Zooble shrugs. “Didn’t feel right just leaving it lying around.” They tilt the porcelain in their grip and watch as the stage lights above dance in its reflection. “Do you have somewhere you keep ‘em? The broken ones?”
“Caine usually takes them away when he replaces them. Or I lose them somewhere.”
“Fair enough.” Zooble hums. And then there’s silence again. The kind of silence that’s akin to the air inside a blanket, thick and stuffy. The kind of silence that could be filled with declarations of love or expressions of gratitude or sincere, honest inquiries on if they’ve ever thought about abstracting, but isn’t, because those are the kinds of conversations that might send their only comfort running as far away as possible.
“Do you want to talk about it?” They ask, gesturing towards the shattered mask. And she does. She wants to give them all the details, every little worry that stacks up to the part where she loses them forever, every past moment where she could have expressed her appreciation, but her selfish shame won. But that would make this about her, when she’s supposed to be making Zooble feel appreciated. But wouldn’t that seem weird, if she just started talking about them when the question was about her? They might think she doesn’t trust them. She has to think of something so she can get the conversation back on track. She has to come up with something believable, right now, and then she can say what she needs to say.
But she runs out of time, because Zooble drops their gaze to the floor and says “It’s okay if you don’t. God knows I get that. I’ll be here for you either way.”
“Why?”
The question leaves her mouth before she can stop it. She thinks the embarassment could kill her, until Zooble looks back up at her with an expression so confused that it borders on betrayal, and suddenly the thought of disappointing them hurts so much more. “I mean, I-I didn’t mean it like… more in the sense of.. well…”
She lets her sentence trickle off, hoping Zooble will think hard about what she’s asking and realize they’re putting in way too much effort for someone like her. But they just continue to stare at her like she put a knife through their heart. She wants nothing more than to melt under such a sorrowful expression until she can no longer be perceived, but her body remains woefully intact, so unscripted words begin tumbling from her mouth instead. “All you really do is… make me feel better. And comfort me. And most of the time I don’t even…” She buries her eyes in her knees to catch her tears. “…thank you. And I just don’t think it’s fair that you do so much for me and I’m just… there. What kind of friend is that?”
If this is what comes from “just saying something” like she’s been trying to do for ages, Gangle thinks she should never speak again. The issue doesn’t even lie within the truth of her words, because she believes every one. It’s the fact that she’s making her failures Zooble’s problem instead of doing something about them. Instead of promising to be better like she really came here to do. So she whispers “Sorry” into her knees, to recenter the conversation on how she needs to improve.
Zooble, impervious as ever, just continues to stare with narrowed eyes. Their expression is hostile only in the distressed concern it carries. “Is that really what you think?” They ask like they’re afraid of the answer.
How is Gangle supposed to properly address that question? All she can really do is nod. This pulls a laugh from Zooble, a sound more akin to a scoff, carrying no humour.
“Did I say something wrong?” She takes advantage of her hollow body to shrink further into herself.
Zooble only dignifies the inquiry with a sigh before asking “Do you remember when I first got here?”
“I try not to. You were like a completely different person. It's weird to think of a time whre you were more scared of Caine than I was."
"Did you ever think maybe the only reason I got used to him was because you would distract him for me until I could do it myself?”
An uninformed observer, ignorant to Gangle’s many shortcomings, may argue that this was the behaviour of a good friend and not just something that anyone would do in her placeThat maybe the terror she put herself through just to make Zooble's Circus transition easier than her own made enough of a first impression. She only comes to this realization when she sees the indignation in Zooble’s eyes mellow out into something softer.
“And that's exactly it. Everything here felt dangerous, except you.” They run manufactured fingers along their chest accessory. “You didn’t force me into anything, you let me take my time… and you listened. When I was able to open up to you about my tattoos, it was the first time I really felt like I could mean anything in this place.”
Right away, Gangle knows what they’re referring to. The day’s adventure had sent them to a catacomb system riddled with markings and diagrams. Kinger had remarked that they were like tattoos for the bricks. If anyone else had noticed how Zooble had flinched at the comment, they didn’t make their observation known. It was only through a gentle hand on their shoulder and the pathetic pity emanating from her tragedy mask that Gangle got to learn Zooble had been fond of tattoos, both giving and receiving them. That they couldn’t stand looking at themselves and not seeing something so crucial to their identity.
“And you leaving me that sketchbook so I could make up new ones was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” Zooble continues, voice much milder.
Heat immediately rushes to Gangle’s face. All of her ribbon coils curl up in alarm. “Y-y-you don’t know that was me! That could have been anyone!” But her voice betrays her by climbing several octaves.
Zooble, too, gives themselves away by raising a hand to stifle laughter despite their lack of a mouth. “It’s the exact same as the sketchbooks you have. Who else could it have been?”
Oh. Somehow, Gangle had failed to consider that. Suddenly, her hours spent handwriting the perfect note and monitoring the hallway to make sure no one would see her place it by Zooble’s door feel like an idiotic waste of time.
“Hey, you don’t have to be embarrassed.” Zooble’s hand is on her shoulder, and she somehow feels her humiliation wither away and magnify itself at the same time. “It was sweet. You’re sweet. And that’s the point. I don’t need big, sweeping gestures from you to tell that you care about me. Just being you is enough. Okay?”
They put emphasis on their last word, and their eyebrows raise just slightly, communicating their desire for a response in no uncertain terms. Gangle can only continue to look into their eyes, captivated as always by how such uncanny constructs can convey, with such certainty that they’re looking at her with adoration. Irreplaceable in their uniqueness, even compared to one another, yet so relaxing that she doesn't think she could find any other eyes so beautiful.
The glaring overhead lights of her room suddenly feel very hot above her. Their existence as spotlights have been given meaning in the presence of caring eyes that act as expectant spotlights themselves. Gangle’s never been good at talking onstage, in front of so many people waiting for her to say the right thing in the right way. Except here it’s just one person, but it’s the most important person, waiting for her to say something so, so scary. Because what if she takes such a declaration for granted? What if she stops being her in the right way, and then all her worst fears come true? How can she agree to that when she can’t even believe it enough to make her voice come out?
Zooble seems sympathetic to her silent turmoil, as she spends precious seconds sputtering nonsense like an idiot. When all she’s wanted this whole time is to just say something worthwhile. They slide a hand behind her neck and around her opposite shoulder, pulling her in so the connecting points of their arms touch. “Think about it this way, then,” Zooble says after her babbling only becomes less distinct. “You care about me, and there are so, so many things that make me care about you. So if you love yourself, even when it isn’t easy, you’re caring for me too. Do you think you can do that?”
Another expectation for a specific answer, but this one feels infinitely more inviting. Gangle feels the tightness in her throat recede, along with the burning of the lights locking her muscles in place. The chill of thick tears rolling down her cheeks and splashing onto the floor is enough to reset her body to normalcy, slowing her racing mind just enough to revel in the idea of being able to make Zooble happy. Not the correct takeaway from their request, she knows, but the vision of their demeanour brightening just for her is too indulgent for her to care.
So she finally guides the word “Yeah” through her throat and out her mouth, and she’s immediately rewarded by seeing their beautifully expressive eyes light up, and she thinks she would spend an eternity under a spotlight if it meant they would look at her with this much affection. “Yeah, I think so,” she continues, tearing her gaze away to nestle into the space beneath Zooble’s head, and sighing reverently when they lean into the touch.
“See? How could I not feel cared for?” She hears Zooble from above, and feels the vibrations of their voice from their head. If she couldn’t see straight through her body, she would swear her heart is pounding in her chest. Instead, she’s left with only the deafening thumping sound ringing in the ears she doesn’t even have, praying that Zooble’s own lack of ears means they’re deaf to it somehow. But then, if they are, they'll just go back to hearing silence and wondering why they're wasting their time here. Even if Gangle can believe that caring for herself will bring Zooble joy, being a worthwhile presence is another battle entirely.
After coming to the swift conclusion that pushing through her fear and her lack of normal things to say and the blinding heat of the overhead lights would be enough to make her vomit on the spot, she realizes she needs to change her approach. She doesn't even need to be the one directing the conversation, as long as Zooble is having a good enough time to not regret checking up on her. She realizes the solution is to just ask, "So, is there... anything... you... wanna talk about?"
Her attempts to sound at least somewhat normal and casual do absolutely nothing for her. The sentence dies on her throat with the abnormal hoarseness in her voice, and Zooble arches an eyebrow down at her with a look somewhere between endearment and confusion. "Not really?" They respond, slowly and with a hint of something like wariness that makes Gangle's stomach plummet. "I mean, I'm doing fine, if that's what you're asking."
"Oh! No, I wasn't- I mean, good! That's good. I just meant in general, though."
Attempting to further read Zooble’s expression proves to be meaningless as Gangle’s shame causes her to retreat further inwards, until her whole mask is brushing against the bottom of Zooble’s head. She feels them shrug against her before she hears them speak again. “We could talk, I guess. But I like just sitting as well. Don’t wanna push it if you’re still not feeling great.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Gangle says, and in her stubbornness to be a worthwhile presence, she fears it manifested more like anger in her tone.
“That’s not what I meant.” They say it carefully, but firmly, like they hear her defensiveness and wish they could cleave her mental walls in half. “I like it every time we just sit. With the s[%$!#]t we have to deal with every day… talking is nice, but so is peace and quiet. As long as I get to share it with you.”
Only as the comment makes adrenaline rush through Gangle’s body does she notice a sensation running up and down her hand. She looks down to see Zooble’s talon fingers clutching the end of her ribbon between them, curling it around them before carefully letting it drop. It invokes a sensation long forgotten, of when she had fingers of her own, and she would take locks of her own hair and coil them around each digit. She remembers how it would soothe her when the world felt like it was too much, how she would rub at the stands with her thumb and become aware of her feet planted firmly on the ground.
As if on cue, Zooble begins gently caressing the underside of her hand with their hallux. New tears spring to the edges of her mask, and before she even realizes they’re there, Zooble has moved another of their hands to wipe them away. Suddenly, every silent evening they’ve ever spent together becomes recontextualized in her mind. Where she once saw Zooble as agonizingly bored and wishing she would go away, she now accepts the possibility that they’re just as desperate for safety as she is. That she, through her many failures, can still offer that to them just by being there.
“I like just sitting too,” she’s able to say, hopeful that her wobbly whisper was able to convey her sincerity. And there’s so much more she could convey. She would never leave this spot if it were up to her, except to coil every inch of her body around the object of her affection and keep them here beside her. She wouldn’t mind having eternity to tell them everything she loves about them, from their eyes to the sound of their voice to the excitement of seeing what new parts they’re trying each day. She wouldn’t even waste a moment to breathe, letting them know every little gesture of kindness she’s noticed, every way they make her feel like she’s worth something, every day they’ve made bearable for her when she’d otherwise wish not to see the next. She would make them feel as perfect as they are, and she would never let them forget it.
Paralyzing fear still grapples Gangle in place at the thought of realizing her desires. The idea that acting could come at the cost of losing everything she currently has keeps her still and silent, no matter how cowardly she knows it to be. But she feels tension leave Zooble’s body upon affirming their shared joy, and she decides she would do anything to feel it happen again. It’s enough to meet the two extremes somewhere in the middle.
“I like spending time with you.” Her words cleave through the silence of the room, but also the pounding of her own heart.
“I do too,” Zooble replies, and she feels their muscles fully relax.
“I don’t feel like I need to pretend when I’m with you,” she says.
“Good,” they reply, and she feels them tighten their grip on her hand. “I like you exactly as you are.”
“Things feel okay when I’m with you,” she says.
“I feel that way too,” they reply, and she feels the weight of their head drop on top of hers.
Maybe that sounded stupid. She’ll probably have rehearsed everything she should have said by morning. But hearing them say that, knowing she offers even a fraction of how they make her feel, she can’t do anything but sigh happily and revel in the blissful silence that she’s earned.
This time, the quiet blankets her loosely and warmly, like slipping under familiar covers after a long day. She loses track of how long she sits like this, tracing her other hand up and down Zooble’s arm. She focuses only on the way the touch seems to soothe them, and forgets all about the world outside her bedroom. She could fall asleep right here, she thinks as she allows her eyes to rest, if it meant tomorrow never had to come.
“Are you getting tired?” Zooble asks her, and the smoothness of their voice is like the sweetest of lullabies. She shakes her head against their shoulder, but she’s betrayed by her inability to force her eyes back open. Hearing them chuckle from above her just traps her further in her contented stupor.
“I just don’t want you to go,” she confesses at the tail end of a begrudging yawn, and her embarrassment towards the blatant declaration is swiftly eradicated when an arm reaches over to rub the side of her arm.
“No one said I have to,” they reply, following themselves up with a quieter “I don’t want to leave, either.”
The confirmation that Zooble isn’t overextending themselves just to make her comfortable is only relieving enough to stop her from startling at the pain in their voice. “Is something wrong?” She asks. “D-did I talk about myself too much?”
“No. No, it’s nothing like that.” Their hand grazes the side of her mask before they drop it back down and sigh. “You know how much I don’t like my room. I don’t think anything could make me look forward to going back in there.”
It is true that Zooble got pretty tough luck when it came to bedroom designs. Gangle doesn’t think she would be able to sleep if she knew how many mirrors would be staring back at her in her most vulnerable state. And she can’t exactly relate to having parts of herself sitting in boxes within view, but based on how Zooble describes it, she thinks she would find it just as unsettling. As much as the spotlights above her now can feel suffocating, spending time in Zooble’s room reminds her that it could be worse.
“You can stay,” Gangle reassures them. “Is that why you heard me in the hallway?"
“Yeah. That, and Caine’s been showing up unannounced lately. The longer I can get away from him, the better.”
Gangle’s free hand reaches up to clasp around Zooble’s dangling from her shoulder. They embrace the touch, but shrink into themselves beside her. She sometimes finds herself wishing she could find the courage to skip out on adventures like Zooble, until she sees how obsessive Caine becomes over their opinion. Now, she just wishes she had the courage to make him leave them alone. To repay every day they’ve swooped in to save her from Jax and make sure they never have to wish they could make themselves smaller again. She wants to tell them just as much, but what’s the use if she’ll never be able to give them that world?
“You never have to leave if you don’t want to,” she says instead, and the guilt of her offering being practically useless fizzles out faster than it normally would, even before they lean into her like it’s everything they could have asked for.
“You’re the best.” Gangle endures the pain of supporting her own head if only to look up and see the smile in Zooble’s eyes. “Do you want me to set something up on the floor?”
She shakes her head. This wouldn’t be the first time the two have shared a bed. Neither of them are unfamiliar with sitting beside the other to allow them a quick nap, in case of intrusion from their respective tormentors with unlimited access to the Circus’ rooms. Both of them sleeping at the same time shouldn’t be much different, right?
Maybe if Gangle keeps telling herself that, she’ll believe it, and the heat rising to her cheeks will vanish. But Zooble shifts their arm lower and uses it to support her flimsy body as the pair hoist themselves to their feet, and she quickly finds the idea of separating from them to be far worse than any humiliation she could dream up.
The extra support proves useful in getting to her bed with her body drooping just as much as her eyes. She allows Zooble to slip under the sheets and scooch to the far side before climbing in herself. Usually, Gangle finds that her extravagantly plump mattress and thick silken covers practically swallow her, ironically leaving no room for comfort. But with someone else weighing down the other side, she can feel like she’s settling down instead of drifting away at sea.
The air around the room carries the same serenity as it did before the pair got up. Gangle carefully turns her head to keep an eye on Zooble beside her, for any signs of discomfort or tension or boredom or regret. And yet, she’s only met with rhythmic breathing that transitions into soft snores more quickly than she was expecting. The sound keeps her anchored to the moment, where the potential consequences of all her failures may otherwise have returned with a vengeance the moment she committed herself to slumber. Instead, she has proof presence makes Zooble feel safe, and her self-compassion makes Zooble happy. The undeniable evidence remains beside her no matter what she did or didn’t say.
Visions of her failing her best friend until they succumb to an irreversible fate fade slowly from her mind’s eye like rolling fog, dispersed by the truth of the present moment. Feeling the slight shifts of their body beneath the covers can be enough. The silence can’t be anything but blissful now that she knows they’re enjoying it together.
Gangle isn’t certain when she drifts off to sleep. All she knows is that she comes back to consciousness before Zooble, with the almost intoxicating drowsiness of a good night’s rest that she had long forgotten. She’s quickly snapped out of it once she registers the feeling of something beneath her arm, and looks down to see Zooble turned to their other side and perfectly flush with her body.
The urge to say something overwhelms her as quickly as the bolt of shame that rushes through her. Apologize, promise it won’t happen again, denounce every mistake she’s ever made, anything to make up for the intrusion. But the time it takes for her to think of what she could possibly say reveals that Zooble hasn’t yet roused from their own slumber. In fact, they limply roll to close the distance caused by Gangle jumping backwards from embarrassment, allowing their own arm to land heavily onto one of her spirals and pin it against the mattress.
There are so many things Gangle can do in this moment. List all the reasons she needs to work harder to deserve this, perhaps, or every way she would return the affection if only it had been a conscious action. But none feel right, except for settling back down onto her pillow and staying still enough to keep Zooble comfortable. Words can wait. She wouldn’t give up this moment for anything.