thirty-six hours with you | georgenotfound x reader

17. paper games

Thunder causes the whole room to shake, and a strike of lightning flashes closely after.

I pull the covers over my shoulder as I roll over to face the window. The clock reads 4:39. I watch it for a while, willing it to turn. When it doesn't, I find something else.

I can see the outline of George on the floor. I don't remember him moving from the bed, so he must've done it after I fell asleep.

My mind glazes over our conversation last night. George and I have never really talked before this trip, so I never imagined I would tell him that. He now knows my darkness, my fears and my nightmares.

I know I shouldn't be embarrassed; everyone has their things that take sleep away from night to night. It's a universal experience that humans have to deal with. I let out a sad sigh, wishing there was an easier way to go through pain. Sometimes I wonder about how other people cope through life; how do they keep going when they've hit their rock bottom?

My eyes follow Goerge's movements as a distraction, watching his chest rise and fall. I begin to wonder what George's darkness is; what keeps him from sleeping? How does he go on living through everything?

Thunder booms once more, and I close my eyes before the lightning flashes.

O O O

I wake up for the second time this morning; the clock reads 10:56 this time. George is laying down, facing his phone.

His eyes flit up at the movement of my waking, but he doesn't say anything. It feels like a silent truce after last night. We momentarily decided to call for a cease fire while stuck in such small proximity.

I grab my own phone, scrolling through Tommy's texts and screenshots of the storm right on top of us. For emphasis, the thunder rolls once more.

"I called the mechanic," George says, careful not to break the quiet morning with his voice, "He said they're not working today because of the storm, but they'll call once they open."

"Oh," I say, soaking in his words. Everything always seems harder to comprehend right after you wake up. "Oh," I add once it registers that it means we're stuck in this motel for at least the next day.

"Yeah." George chuckles. "Everything is basically closed."

"Hm," I hum, too lazy to fully respond.

We both go back to our phones, laying in bed being our only option now. The quiet between us doesn't feel uncomfortable or tense. We're just two people living simultaneously for once.

When Instagram and Twitter feel completely scrolled, I sit up straight to stretch. George's eyes stay on his screen, focused on a video.

I stand from the bed. My feet are cold as I cross the floor to the window. The rain sounds more than the patter it was last night. I open the curtain to see it's still dark despite being almost noon. The rain is falling consistently, hitting the window, ping after ping.

In the distance, across the parking lot, I notice lights shining through the darkness. "What's that?" I ask George, pointing to the small building.

George sits up to see what I'm pointing to. "Oh, it's a gas station. I saw it on google maps yesterday."

"Oh." I let the curtain fall. It doesn't close all the way, but I don't fix it, liking the slip of rainfall sounding through the room.

George is still sitting on the floor. I could sit back in the bed, but it feels as if I had already laid there for days on end. I check the clock; we haven't even been here for twenty-four hours, and I'm already feeling claustrophobic from the beige-colored walls.