behind the streams | dnf

sixteen | lost

GEORGE

The hours move too slow. The days blur too fast. 

Before I know it, it's December 17th. 

There's only a week left. It seems so soon, yet so distant.

Time is running out for a level of preparation I know I will never achieve. 

I'm going to see him.

Just the thought of it sends my body through an exhilarating rush.

I'm going to see him.

Not just hear his voice. Not just witness his presence. 

I'm going to see his face. His laugh, his smile, his eyes, his lips...

It could not be coming any slower than it is now. So many times I've sat in my room, disapproving on how lazily the minutes tick by. Some moments I feel as if it'll never arrive. I never realize the buildup of each hour when I'm solely counting the slow moments. 

But every night I go to sleep and wake up and realize that I've lost another day.

Another day closer to an infinite world of possibilities. From one end of the spectrum to the complete opposite, I don't know what to prepare for. 

I don't want to ponder the possible outcomes too much, as it always sends me into several hours of my own worries and fear of adversities. The grasps of my own mind overpower me at times, dragging me down to an overwhelming state with never-ending uncertainties that demand answers I don't have. 

It latches on to me when I'm most vulnerable. When there's nothing to distract me. 

I turn over to look at the red digital clock. 4 am.

Like now. 

Always now. 

I haven't slept before now since the trident stream. Yet I still wake up at a normal hour. It's my own thoughts that make me afraid of closing my eyes. 

I'm wide awake. My bed feels unwelcoming. The thoughts invite me in with open arms. 

I let them take me away. 

I don't think I'll ever conjure enough confidence to tell him upright, or ask him about it. I can't stand the thought of setting myself up for failure, knowing that the memory of him letting me down will forever sear into my mind. Imagine him deflecting my confession, telling me that he doesn't want me like that; dread already seeps in, even through a made-up scenario. 

Even if he doesn't turn me down. Hope flickers in the weakest spark. I don't even know where I'm still managing to obtain optimism from. It's possibly the avid refusal to even consider that our ending isn't a desirable one. 

It's driving me insane. Continuously trying to grasp at any signs that hold even the most inconspicuous meanings. Frantically trying to keep my head up as the water rises above me. 

I've never been so desperate. The mere possibility that all my efforts, all my waiting, it's all for nothing, I can't even fathom it. 

It has to lead to something. 

Right? 

Because you think this is a movie, and movies have happy endings. 

Sapnap's words knock me down. 

I jam my palms into my eyes, rubbing them furiously. 

He's right. He's always right. I don't even know how.