Miss, Do I Know You?

23 - Saturday, January 9

I continued to blend into the shadows until I spotted Alex quietly creeping into the apartment. Her nocturnal tendencies had also not escaped my notice; she was often up at odd hours of nights and mornings, working at the kitchen island, only the scratches of her pen or the soft clack of a keyboard piercing through the silence. I'd catch her drawing or reading books in bed more often than not, and there were times she disappeared without warning in the middle of the night, only to come back a few hours later. Like that night.

She rarely spoke of it when I asked, but I never pressed. After all, it was obviously none of my business, and I'd nearly given up on trying to figure out her habits because they were anything but predictable. I merely lay there with my eyes affixed to the ceiling and listened to the sound of her car keys quietly dropping onto wood, the familiar creak of a door that I'd come to recognize, the flick of a light switch that signaled she was now in her bedroom, then the water running in her bathroom, until complete silence fell over everything once again.

Everything except my mind. All that came out of it as I lay there were memories of things I had done wrong, the trail of broken friendships that followed, and my overwhelming lack of desire to attempt to mend anything until I had mended myself. I thought about how much I missed my parents, about that never-ending ache in my chest at the mere mention of them, and the promises I made to myself to make it up to them again and again and again that seemed more impossible to keep. About whether I would ever be able to forgive myself for what happened. About how I still worried for Chris and if he was taking care of himself without me there to make sure of that. About how I had not one idea what I wanted to do with my life, how I had put my dreams on hold for so long—though I didn't even know if I had any left—as if waiting for some miracle to happen before I could start living again. About how I wanted to do better and be better, but just couldn't seem to get it right.

At some point, sleep must have caught up with me, because when I opened my eyes again, I was in a different position, the blanket slightly twisted and bunched up around me, and the earphones wrapped around my arm and digging uncomfortably into my skin. But the night was still dark and quiet, and the moon was still in the sky.

I disentangled myself from the wire in an attempt to sit up, anticipating nothing but shadowy silence to greet me. But my focus gravitated toward the kitchen. I wondered how long she had been there, leaning on the marble counter, in near darkness with the only light emanating from the window, staring down at her own fingers wrapped around a glass that she took absentminded sips from.

"Can't sleep?"

Her gulp of water went down the wrong way at the sound of my voice. "Fuck you," Alex coughed the words out. "Stop scaring the shit out of me."

A chuckle slipped through my lips as she flicked on the lights under the kitchen cabinets, pouring some warmth into the living room and allowing me a better look at her. It gave such a beautiful golden hue to her figure, just enough to highlight her black silk robe as she padded over to the couch, and gave something for my tired gaze to catch onto—the tattoos that seemed to dance with each step she took, just as overwhelmingly beautiful as the bare parts of her legs.

Her playful throat-clearing was a cue to my blatant gaze that snapped my attention back to hers. And though I was prepared to respond with some lame excuse or joke, I instead noticed her messy hair, just barely dried, and the red-rimmed vulnerability in her eyes. She had been crying.

"Are you okay?"

One nod was what I got in response before she collapsed next to me. "Just another shitty dream."

Sighing, I draped my blanket over us both and snuggled closer. "We can be miserable together."

A soft foot nudged mine as she made room for them to ward off any chill the night brought, and I happily obliged and sat waiting for her to find a comfortable spot. But for all her wriggling and digging and squirming, she seemed unable to do so, until she gave an audible sound of defeat and dropped her head onto me, in the curve where my abdomen gently rose and where my bent legs formed a comfortable cradle. She inhaled deeply, then settled, the warmth of her breath seeping through the thin fabric of my tank top.