Benedict Cumberbatch Imagine- The Girl in the Window

Loosing Sleep

You had two days.  That was all.  From London to LA, you had to get there in two days. 

You had run home after Bo had picked you up and placed you back on your feet.  Your parents, who had called you back home to talk, had been elated to see how different, meaning renewed, you were when you had gotten home, and pushed you towards making it up with Benedict, for even they could see how happy both of you were together. 

And so now here you are, consorting with the airport website, attempting to get a ticket to LA as your heart pounds in your chest.  You had to get there, having already discussed with his agency where and when Benedict was there, making sure he did not know, arranging a car to pick you up at the airport, if ever you got a seat on a plane.

You screamed as the website bleeped at you again, showing yet another error sign.  Your parents didn’t bother checking on you anymore, knowing why.  They had already experienced your fury when your Dad poked his head into your dimly lit childhood room, blinds shut against the day.  

He asked kindly what was wrong, to wit you responded with a sour face, growling and mumbling curses about the ‘damn, bloody, useless piece of crap website’ until he said

“Not having any luck then, I take it.” 

He regretted it immediately, as your head snapped up from the glow of the disgustingly professional screen and you glared at him before yelling

“What do you think?!”

You click the wrongfully cheery ‘OK’ button on the error screen, then fell back into your bed and groaned loudly, punching the mattress.  You’re so stressed about not being able to make it there in time that you feel sick to your stomach, your head a bit jumbled and tense. 

“Just… Please.” You beg to nothing in particular, a sob wanting to break through your throat.  You let an exhausted shiver roll through your body before you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking at the semi packed suitcase that was on your floor, a heavy, depressive feeling sitting in your chest.  It almost felt ridiculous to have even started packing.

With a sinking heart you turn back to the screen, clicking here and there, trying to set up your plane and seat, finding a good time and such for the near eleven hour flight.  As you click on the ‘Are you sure?’ button, your heart is in your throat and tears begin to well up in your eyes as you watch the dreaded circle go around and around.  You fall forwards, your head falling beside the computer, a sob shattering your composure.

‘Blip!’  

You stop dead, trying to process what you just heard.  You lift your head just a few inches off your comforter, unable to believe it.  Finally, you look at the screen and there it is: the blessed little sign saying you are successful.  You could cry with relief.

And you do

“Call us when you get there.” Your mother tells you, drawing you into a hug.

“Of course.” You tell her. Giving her and your Dad a quick hug before grabbing the handle of your luggage and waving as you march towards your airplane later that night.

The flight is fraught with worry and anticipation even as you curl up with your favourite book, a small blanket draped over you and buds in your ears.  All you can do is stare out the window into the darkness, and later in awe, as the day became apparent and lit the gorgeous, sculpted and sectioned landscape below.

When you land, you are the first off the plane, shooting up the aisle and nearly running through the airport, hurrying your way through security and whatever came with landing: you aren’t paying any attention .  Soon, you’re carrying your suitcase down the elevator, scuttling towards the stranger with your name on a card.  He greets you kindly and introduces himself, but you ask him to repeat it more than once on your journey to the hotel.  You drop your things off quickly and get ready, refusing to rest, as Benedict is accepting his award via video in a short few hours.