The Deep End ✔️

22 - featherweight

Before I'd had the privilege of waking up beside Dallas, first thing in the morning was my least favorite time of the day.

I hated when my eyes were forced open by a perfectly angled sunbeam that just-so-happened to point directly through a crack in my blackout curtains, no thanks to a careless Nelly Furtado who liked to bat at the curtain skirts, knocking them to and fro. Or worse, when I'd be jolted out of sleep by my alarm clock before the sun came out at all. It was those few waking seconds of resurfacing to the land of the living, my consciousness underdeveloped and a bit hazy.

The first morning that summer that I had been lucky enough to wake up beside Dallas, who'd either skipped his morning run to stay with me between the sheets or returned afterwards, had been my favorite. He had a way of changing my perspective of things, even though it was never on purpose. First-Thing-in-the-Mornings could be tolerable, if he was involved.

To wake and, for only a few short seconds, lack awareness of where I am and what I'm doing, only to immediately recognize the breathing pattern beside me, or to catch a whiff of the familiar smell lingering in the blankets of the remnants of last night. That was what made mornings the nearest thing to pleasant. It was the only part of waking up the night after Dallas stayed over in my shoebox apartment that I looked forward to.

So why did I wake up alone?

My eyes adjusted to the light seeping in from the askew curtains before me. The bed was empty, save for me, and all remnants of Dallas's previously thrown about clothes were gone from the floor. I slumped a little, unsure of what to make of this feeling in my chest. Deciding to avoid jumping to conclusions, I dropped my feet to the carpet to investigate. He wouldn't leave me like this after our conversation, would he?

Surely, I deserved it. With how many times I spun back and forth with my own feelings, weaving a web of crippling uncertainty and trapping poor Dallas within the threads, he earned the right to change his mind, too. That didn't mean it hurt any less.

The bathroom was unoccupied, so I checked the living room after taking a piss. A hollow pit was starting to take form in my chest when he was nowhere to be seen in my apartment. I checked my phone, too, to no avail. Nelly Furtado gave me a look that said, I could have told you this would happen, from her perch on the sofa.

I sunk onto the couch and brought my knees to my chin, gnawing at the skin on my inner lip. Don't overthink this, Meek. Maybe he just had an early meeting he forgot to tell you about. I shook my head. He would tell me. Unsure of whether or not to call him at risk of appearing like a stage-three clinger, my fingers hovered over his name in my phone. We were boyfriends now. I was allowed to ask about his whereabouts after the most passionate night I'd ever had.

I threw my phone on the couch, feeling almost angry. At myself and at Dallas for making me feel this way.

Every single bone in my body, from the day Dallas kissed me on the beach, was sure I was too vulnerable to get into anything serious. In fear of getting hurt, I stayed true to that by shoving him away as much as I could. This was why. This was the insecurity that drained and exhausted me. I wanted nothing more than to be the careless, no-fucks-given Meek that I pretended to be, but it was under the surface where the truth liked to burrow. And the truth was that I was delusional and anxious.

I hardly noticed the single tear drop forming in the corner of my left eye when I heard the doorknob rattle. My eyes shot to the front door where the lock turned itself and then pushed open, revealing my boyfriend.

Let me just change my name to Big Baby and save myself the self-preservation.

"Why do you look like that?" Dallas paused at the door, kicking it shut behind him. He was dressed in his clothes from last night and holding two paper bags under one arm. "Did you think I— oh, no."