'in which everything is the same'
You had no such luck avoiding the loud catastrophe of noise. You did initially manage to sidestep it, making your way to Layla's office and managing to get yourself a stack of paper to supply your office with. The problem was the walk back to your office. You take one wrong turn and suddenly you're watching Texas and California cuss each other out. Fun times.
You sigh as you stare at the duo. You can't even tell what they're fighting about. They're talking so quickly and so loudly it's almost impossible for you to keep up with what they're saying. You glance between the two of them. You wonder how long you'll have to stand here before they notice you standing here. You have your bets set on quite a while.
"Hey there." You glance over to your right, and your gaze is met with the dull blue of the new figure's eyes. You stare at him and his messy head of blond hair with a strange sense of familiarity. This was another State.
"Uh... Hi." An amused look spills onto the blond's face.
"You must be [Name] right? With how York was talking about you I was expecting to get a plant pot to the face."
"I only throw plant pots at people if they piss me off." You stare him down. "Who're you exactly?"
He glances around for a moment, likely looking to see if anyone is in earshot. You doubt anyone could hear him over the volume that Texas and California were yelling at though.
"Delaware." He glances over at you for a moment. "Call me Theo though."
You nod, staring at him for a moment longer before your attention is drawn back to California, Texas and a new guy. You assume that's New York based off the amount of explicatives used in one sentence. Also, you remember him from that time you threw the plant pot. He was just as grumpy then, if you remember correctly. At least it was quieter now.
Adjusting the stack of papers in your hands, you begin to backtrack your steps, slipping away from the small congregation of States. You really just want to get back to your office and write this letter without any more mental crises or other interruptions.
You hum quietly as you walk toward the stairwell. You adjust the stack of papers in your hands. There was an odd silence lingering throughout the building now that you can no longer hear the two states arguing.
You stop for a moment, glancing over your shoulder to stare down the hallway you just came from. It was silent. Almost deathly so. You suppose it must mean that everyone who actually works here was busy with their regular tasks. Unlike you, who's wandering around looking for paper, and unlike the handful of States that had arrived who were decidedly tense. You can't say you blame them. You can't imagine this meeting that they're here for has any good connotations.
Your hands tighten around the stack of papers in your hands. You stand tense for a moment before you sigh and turn back to face the door to the stairwell. You walk up the stairs quickly, heading to your office without wasting a moment more of time. Once there you take a seat in the chair, lacing your hands over the stack of papers.
Holding a pen between your thumb and index finger, you flip it back and forth, thinking of where to begin. It takes a while. Your mind runs as blank as the page before you.
You've always struggled writing letters. Not that you truly have much experience writing actual letters considering the 21st century is so ingrained in technology. You do have experience with emails, however, and emails and letters are similar enough. The act of actually setting out to write something was just such a hassle. Nothing you ever write ever sounds good enough. It's always nothing short of an ugly mess that you have to rewrite half a dozen times before you finally have some semblance of satisfaction in the writings.
A groan slips from your lips as you lean backwards into your chair. The chair slides back on its wheels a few inches. Your hands drop, dangling underneath the arms of the chair as you slink down closer and closer to the ground. When you eventually stop, your legs are spread in an awkward sprawl and your shoulders and back are the only parts of you that are technically on the chair. You were fucking hopeless.
Utilizing a significantly higher amount of effort than was probably necessary, you pull yourself back into your chair. It was an unceremonious occasion, and yet somehow you were out of breath from the action. Out of breath and staring at the blank pages in front of you.
Nothing was ever easy, was it? Just roundabout after roundabout after roundabout. An endless circling of bullshit. Maybe that's a little dramatic considering that your current task is to write a letter to a friend. But who were you if not dramatic? Whiny probably. A whiny, dramatic, hopeless idiot, to be more specific. You feel like you were constantly complaining, and even if it's just to yourself most of the time you feel more than just a little bit pathetic.
You stare back at the blank paper. You begin to twist the pen between your fingers again. It taps against your hand in a rhythmic fashion that seems to dull your thoughts further and further with each motion. You have a hunch you aren't going to be writing this letter anytime today.
You set the pen down, leaning back into the chair again. You stare up at the ceiling. The same colour of dingy white at the rest of the building interspaced with lights that probably emit more buzzing than they do actual light. You shake your head.
Your chair squeaks quietly as you stand. You remain still for a short moment before you finally head for the door of your office. You walk out into the hallway and step over to the window.
It was snowing. A gentle drift of small, delicate flakes fall through the sky. You stand next to the window for a long time.
Your mind drifts in step with the snow. Your thoughts were a cascade of almost nothing. For the first time in a while, your thoughts had been silenced. It was not a silence you took comfort in. It was a silence accompanied by a twisting of familiar regrets in your stomach.
You didn't want to think about it. Your situation truly plagued your every waking thought and you were tired. You were so damn tired and yet, even in rest, you never seem to be able to escape. You would dream of home, but home was something so foreign to you now that your dreams slip further and further into the realm of uncanny as you spiral further and further into the deep resignation that you had grown to satisfy the unyielding nature of what had become your life.
A hand rests against the window as you watch the snow. You've been here before. Not this window maybe. Not this type of snowfall. The emotions, however, are what are the same. Your unending longing for home. You wish you'd know for certain that you'd never see it again. At least that way you'd know you could finally let go.
The snow falls slowly. Weakly. It dances through the air in a meaningless waltz. The small drift will never amount to anything great in the already existent pile of snow, but it was pretty. The dance was meaningless, but the show goes on regardless.
With a sigh, you finally push away from the glass window, disregarding the turmoil you feel gnawing away at the strings of your sanity. You head the few steps back to your office, glancing down the hall as you do so. You stop, your hand centimetres away from the door.
"[Name]" Tennesse nods in greeting.
"Te- uh..." You catch yourself, despite no one else being in the hallway. "Lucas. Hi."
"You must like the snow."
"I guess you can say that..." Your tone was decidedly awkward. You forgot that the last time he found you you were lying in the snow without a jacket on. At least this time you were just staring at it. "How long have you been here for?"
"Not long. A few minutes at best." He shrugs his shoulders. His expression was nonchalant, and so was his appearance. His brown hair was messy, and he was dressed in simple, casual clothes. "I was just going to let America know I was here. Is he in his office?"
"He was earlier." Is your simple response. You hadn't seen him wandering around in the halls as you had been on your hunt for blank paper, but who knows at this point? You'd been holed up in your dingy little office for a while now. "But that was over an hour ago now, so who knows." Not you, that's for sure.
"Wouldn't you be the one person who would know?" You tense at the question. You should know. Your job title here is America's assistant after all, but after the day he fell asleep in your apartment any point of access you had to the man was more or less cut off. He's not even tossing his utterly confusing paperwork on you anymore. You wish you knew what his deal was but you don't have the slightest of clues.
"Probably." Your response is short, and more quiet than you intended.
"Probably, and yet you don't." You give Tennesse a pointed look, and he lets out a sigh. "Did you get fired after being here for barely a month or something?"
"Do I look like I've been fired?" You cross your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow, almost in a silent challenge.
"You certainly don't look very busy." And there he goes taking your challenge.
"Whatever. I'm sure America is still in his office, just go talk to him."
"And what will he tell me when I get there?"
"Hell if I fucking know." With an annoyed sigh, you push your office door open, stepping inside. You shut the door, hearing a loud click of the latch alongside the door slamming against the door frame.
You stand in silence inside the room. Most conversations you have with Tennesse end with tensions forcing their way in. Tensions that only manage to find their way into the conversation because you don't know how to explain anything. But how could you? If the entire situation is inexplicable then how are you to explain something basic?
With a begrudging sigh and an unnecessary lingering anger, you take a seat in your chair once more. You pick up your pen, shaking it between your two fingers. You stare at the blank page in front of you, not a single intention of actually writing.
You stare at the blank page in front of you for a long time. Your shaky agitation eventually dwindles out, leaving not even the former embers of your anger and annoyance. The pen lays lax in between your fingers. You feel empty. You feel empty and so beyond hope and so goddamn fucking tired.
The pen rolls across your desk when you toss it. Its momentum carries it across your desk, dropping it onto the floor on the other side. You stare at the spot where it used to be blankly, but you make no effort to stand to pick it up. It remains discarded on the floor, like a simple piece of trash. It's not a piece of trash, and you know that, but you don't have the will to pick it up. Not as silent tears begin to slip down your face. Not as your breath begins to choke in your airways.
There was nothing you could do anymore. There was nothing that you could ever do. Your impact on your life had dropped to nothing, the moment you dropped from that stupid dirt bank eighty years in the future. Every day it feels like it becomes even more glaringly obvious that your life didn't belong to you. Your life belonged to the whims of the world, to the whims of the past, and to the whims of those stronger than you.
You never wanted any of this, and yet your hands shake and tears fall from the corners of your eyes. Your breath is ragged. You feel like you're going to suffocate, trying as hard as you are to stop your tears from falling. It was futile and you know that. Your tears keep falling and falling, and eventually, they stain the blank pages in front of you. At least you finally made some sort of mark on them.
*so fun fact, the first chapter of this was published 365 days ago