behind the streams | dnf

twenty nine | close

read slowly, thanks for waiting so long for this one :) 

~

GEORGE

I wake up alone. 

Despite the still-unfamiliar environment that welcomes me, his absence is disjointed and instant, the first thought to register as the sleep lifts off my eyelids. I'm still facing the nightstand like I deliberately remember doing so last night. 

The dread is heavy. 

Last night.

But the words have a different meaning now. Not like yesterday morning, where it was a panic, a spike of nerves that urged me away, away. Sending me into a restless debate as the mantra persisted in my ears. 

But not now. Not anymore. The frenzy's died, and there's no what-ifs this time. The ambiguity's stiffened into an awful acceptance. 

Because I know there's not even a waver of uncertainty. So I let it seep in, staring at the wall as my gaze hollows and it hits me in a dull ache. 

I slipped up. I slipped up. 

My stomach turns to ice. 

I did it. I messed up.

Just like Sapnap said. 

Inexplicable fury brims behind my eyes. Just like he said. And I was stupid, so stupid. For thinking I wouldn't, for letting myself down, for only proving that he's always right. 

I don't even know what happened. I don't even know. How did I let that happen? 

Pitiful frustration tears at me. Why did I blush? So easily? Why, why, did he have to mention it? 

It's undeniable. My heart plummets. Dream knows. He has to know. Or at the very least, he's absolutely aware that something is up.  I could see him thinking, and out of panic I lied, saying I wanted to sleep, when all I wanted was out, before he could figure out anything else. 

Away, away from the awful anticipation and the room swimming in my vision as he landed close, much too close.

My fingers lace together and twist, fingernails curling into soft skin. Panic laces my thoughts as I frantically try to remember his face. How much does he know, exactly? All of it? Part of me tells me it's not possible, recalling how I tried to talk my way out of it, saying I was bad with compliments. 

But his expression-

The calculated arch of his eyebrows as his gaze directed elsewhere, yet intense even though it wasn't on me. He was thinking. 

My stomach tumbles and I clench my jaw. He was thinking. Who knows what he's made of it now? In the elapse of an entire night, I don't even know where he is now, both physically and otherwise. 

Slowly my eyes glide over to the bedroom door in an emotionless survey. I have to face him. 

The thought rouses me off the edge of the bed, fueling my steps as I shove the memory far, far away. Without its complexity influencing my actions, hopefully I can still salvage a shred of normalcy. 

Different hoodie, same sweatpants. I throw the hood over my head and swifly slip my phone into the front pocket. I catch one last gaze of myself in Dream's mirror, and pause.

Round the eyes, soften the jaw. I blink several times to reset myself, my features. Smiling exaggeratedly, then letting my lips fall in what I think to be a somewhat unbothered line. Inhale, exhale, and I feel the memory sink.