( when was the last time she'd managed to sleep without memories splintering through her, leaving her retching up from those sheets, palm splayed at her throat as if another had only just then released a bruising, restricting grip. she doesn't know. nights seemed to blur together, one frigid nightmare after the next, and days had quickly learned to follow — thumb at her tongue to catch at the edge of pages, the harsh glow of a screen reflecting back at her, the mindless sounds of the city behind her as she stayed too late in that office, burying herself in anything that wasn't herself.
as much as one would think there's a discomfort within that sort of rhythm — it became what she knew, became familiar, built some sort of home for her within it despite how dysfunctional, despite how harrowing. it didn't hold her kindly, but she's not too used to being held at all, and so maybe that's why she barely moves throughout the night. why limbs remain in their sleepy tangle with his — he anchors her in sleep in a way she doesn't understand. couldn't. something she doesn't dare venture to try, because if she figures it out, if she gets it all to make sense, she'll only then topple next into it's undoing.
here with him, there's no city around them. there's no memory, none of that tangible fear every time she naively thinks she's conquered it. there's only the rise and fall of his chest, letting it suspend her there — awash from the shore, but steady enough that she doesn't drift out too far.
when the world begins to tug at her again, it's in subtleties. toeing at the sheets — recognizing the warmth of his calve there. a flutter of lashes, enough to understand that it's morning, still early enough that the sun burns in citrus hues, not quite stretched to it's peak in the sky. and then slowly, and yet all at once, he comes back to her — the solidity of him beside her, beneath her, the barely-there brim of a pulse in his chest, reaching up to her cheek. she's still tired — one night of restful sleep didn't bode to make up for all the rest, but it's certainly a start — and there's a tiny sleep-sound that drifts from her lips, spine and limbs elongating into a stretch. gentle, unhurried.
yet, there's an unfamiliarity intruding here: to feel what it's like — for someone to stay. )
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as much as one would think there's a discomfort within that sort of rhythm — it became what she knew, became familiar, built some sort of home for her within it despite how dysfunctional, despite how harrowing. it didn't hold her kindly, but she's not too used to being held at all, and so maybe that's why she barely moves throughout the night. why limbs remain in their sleepy tangle with his — he anchors her in sleep in a way she doesn't understand. couldn't. something she doesn't dare venture to try, because if she figures it out, if she gets it all to make sense, she'll only then topple next into it's undoing.
here with him, there's no city around them. there's no memory, none of that tangible fear every time she naively thinks she's conquered it. there's only the rise and fall of his chest, letting it suspend her there — awash from the shore, but steady enough that she doesn't drift out too far.
when the world begins to tug at her again, it's in subtleties. toeing at the sheets — recognizing the warmth of his calve there. a flutter of lashes, enough to understand that it's morning, still early enough that the sun burns in citrus hues, not quite stretched to it's peak in the sky. and then slowly, and yet all at once, he comes back to her — the solidity of him beside her, beneath her, the barely-there brim of a pulse in his chest, reaching up to her cheek. she's still tired — one night of restful sleep didn't bode to make up for all the rest, but it's certainly a start — and there's a tiny sleep-sound that drifts from her lips, spine and limbs elongating into a stretch. gentle, unhurried.
yet, there's an unfamiliarity intruding here: to feel what it's like — for someone to stay. )