WØRDS [Peterick]

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When I woke up the next morning, Pete was still asleep. I noticed that my boxers were still pulled to my knees and thoughts of the last night came into my head, my face getting hot again. I pulled up my boxers, hoping we hadn't been too loud. But then I remembered I had sound-proof walls in attempt to make me feel comfortable talking to myself or singing in here.

I moved my fingers over Pete's chest as I watched him sleep peacefully. He looked so cute asleep. He eventually started opening his eyes after some time and looked at me blinking. "Good morning", he said sleepy and kissed me on the forehead. I closed my eyes again, enjoying the moment. We stayed like this for some minutes until Pete pulled me out of my thoughts. "Patrick?", he asked and I looked at him quizzically. "You know, I really love your voice ... or what was close to it", he added smirking. I couldn't help but grin, too, and hit his chest playfully whereupon he pulled me into a tight hug.

Just then my mum knocked at my bedroom door, sticking her head inside. I almost started to panic although my mum knew Pete was my boyfriend, but she just smiled at us. "Good morning! Do you want to have breakfast? I just made some coffee", she said and both Pete and I started to get up after she had left.

.

One week later Pete was staying over at night again. It had been a really rough day with an exam, a vocabulary test, gym, and coming out to Joe and Andy. Well, I had been coming out to them, they knew Pete was gay. I still was very scared, although they totally accepted homosexuals, and almost ran away before I could write it down. Also, my hands very shaking, but I somehow managed to write clearly enough for them to read it. We also told them about our relationship and they were really happy.

We went straight to bed after we got back from the restaurant my mum and Thomas had taken us. Thomas also knew about us being together and was completely fine with it.

But that night was horrible.

I only remember waking up screaming and crying and a very concerned looking Pete next to me. He tried to calm me down, but I was sobbing into his shoulder for what felt like hours. I can't remember what I had dreamt about and I'm sure I wouldn't have wanted to talk about it, if I had known it. Pete didn't talk, he just let me cry until I felt better. I just needed him to be there in that moment. He made me feel safe. When I had finally clamed down I just rested my head on his shoulder not wanting to go back to sleep.

I was scared of going back to sleep. I was scared of falling back into bad habits. Maybe habits is not the right word – rather old patterns. I used to have nightmares almost every night some years earlier and I always woke up like that night. But sometimes I could remember the dreams.

I must've eventually fallen asleep again, because I woke up to the sun shining through the holes in my curtains. Pete was already awake, looking at me. "Are you okay?", he asked worried. But I didn't know. Was I? I felt weird that morning. But I didn't feel bad actually. I kind of had a sore throat – probably because of the screaming and sobbing at night.

I just shrugged my shoulders, but smiled lightly.

I don't really know how long Pete stayed that day. I was far away with my mind, in a world my anxiety created. I hadn't been there for some time, but I was kind of revisiting the past. And what scared me most was that I didn't know why. Nothing had triggered it. At least nothing I was aware of. I used to get these nightmares when I felt lonely because everyone grew tired of me not being able to talk, when I couldn't talk to my mum or when I had therapy.

I never liked therapy even though it helped me. I just hadn't figured it out at that time. I thought it was just a waste of time and that I didn't need it. I couldn't talk with or without therapy, so why did I go there? After I got out of the hospital I thought I was over the whole suicide thing, but now – years later – I finally understand that I wasn't. If I hadn't gone to therapy I don't know what would've been enough to trigger those suicidal thoughts again. I learned to avoid those things, but I didn't appreciate it.

I didn't have nightmares for the next nights but I had to think about it all the time. I was so absent-minded that my friends noticed it. Even Pete, who was as far away with his thoughts as I was. He looked so sad these days. The days after my nightmare. But whenever I asked him if he was okay, he always told me he was fine and went away before I could write more. The whole week went like this and I was dying to know what Pete thought about, what made him so sad. And also what had caused my anxiety this time.

After my last period that Friday I waited for Pete at the entrance and dragged him along to my house when he came. I just took his hand and kind of pulled him even though he didn't protest. We sat on my bed again and I didn't want to wait any longer. "Pete, what is wrong? Why are you so sad? And why don't you talk to me?", I wrote. He read, then put his hands over his face, sighing. "Patrick", he started, "I ... I just thought I could maybe help you ... like that you can talk, but ... well, I can't. I don't know how to help. I just want you to feel better and be happy and ... shit, I just wish I could snap my fingers and you could talk. I wish it was this easy", he said sadly, looking into his lap.

I took his hand and squeezed it lightly, then pulling him in for a hug. He let his chin rest on my shoulder and sighed. I was afraid he might start crying but he didn't. He actually never cried in front of me – except for this one time – but I also never cried in front of him except for that one time.

This is what depression looks like. Nothing. Just being absent-minded and perhaps looking a little sad. But mostly annoyed – even though you're not annoyed at all. The only times I cry are when I have a really bad breakdown – which hasn't happened in a long time – or when I have those nightmares.

I wish I could've said something in this moment. Just his name or that it was okay. But of course I couldn't. Even though he – kind of – had heard my voice at that time it was impossible. I tried. Of course I did. I tried so bad I almost felt like choking. So I gave up and just let myself rest into the hug.

"Pete, it's okay. I am used to not being able to speak", I wrote for him. "I know", he said sadly, "but I still want you to be happy."

.

A/N

Sorry for not updating in forever. I had uni and (volunteer) work and so many other things to do. But now I have holidays and I really want to continue this story (and maybe end it during the holidays, too).

So this is a short update to show you that I'm back at it. The next chapters will probably be a little longer.

- jo