If I Stay✔️

78

L E O

three weeks later

The sound of the six am alarm blares, effectively pulling me from my third nightmare-less slumber of the week. I groan, twisting my body to bury my face in the soft pillow that was previously under my neck, overly eager for at least another hour or ten of rest.

With my eyes fixated on nothing but the darkness of my pillow fibres, I prepare to lull myself back to dream land; counting invisible sheep and whatnot, for as long as I can before Beth comes knocking. But, of course, as always, my hopes of getting more rest are well and truly shattered as my ears pick up Oliver's tired voice, listening intently as he mutters colourful words under his breath.

At least he's talking...

I hear him practically wrestle with his blanket as he scrambles from his bed, making a b-line for the bathroom. His foot steps are harsh and heavy against the thick carpeted floor of our shared room, making me assume that he's not in the best of moods. Less than a second later, he slams the bathroom door behind him with so much force, that an echoing thud reverberates in the air- confirming my assumption to be true.

Not again.

For the past week or so, he's seemed pretty down in the dumps. Whilst I've been in the best head space in, well... weeks, maybe even months, Oliver seems to be in a bit of a spiral.

My stomach churns with unease, my mind blank as I try and think of the best possible way to help my friend. Oliver's been a great friend to me- maybe even one of the best friends I've ever had. He doesn't push me into anything, he can tell with just one look whenever I feel overwhelmed. He comforts me through any... episodes? And never makes me feel bad for putting him in a position that I know makes him uncomfortable.

I want to do the same for him. I want to be a person he feels safe around, someone he can trust when it feels like his world is falling apart. I want to be for him, what he is to me.

His best friend.

Ten minutes pass before the bathroom door opens. Oliver steps out, dressed in his usual black attire. He doesn't look at me, eyes downcast as he strolls towards his guitar. He picks up the instrument and I hold my breath, he hasn't played all week.

Six silent seconds pass. Oliver's grip loosens on the guitar as the instrument descends to the floor with a low thump.

"Oliver," I call to him, watching as his shoulders tense. He does this sometimes, too. He gets so lost in his own head, that it seems like he forgets we share a room. His eyes are guarded as he turns to me, lips pulled down as he frowns.

What do I do now?

I try to think of something to say, but my mind falls to abyss as words fail me. Are you okay is a little too cliche. I'm here if you want to talk seems forced. And play me a song is just plain fucking useless.

Fuck.

Frustrated with myself, I begin cracking my fingers- needing something to keep me grounded. I've never been the friend people would come to for advice, I've never really been a good friend to anyone in my life- not even Emilio. Heart to hearts, long conversations about favourite things or crushes- it all seemed pointless to me in the past.