behind the streams | dnf

thirteen | reasons

GEORGE

3 hours after the call ends, I can finally see the sun rising.

The morning glow seeps through my curtains, illuminating faint outlines of different belongings in my room.

3 hours after the call ends, I'm still on my phone, even though the battery is slowly draining after the hour long talk with Dream.

It's practically burning in my hands from overheating as I scroll through several social media apps incessantly. I watch every video to the last second, read every thread to the last word, anything that'll keep my mind occupied.

3 hours after the call ends, I'm still awake.

Not a single sheen of sleep passes over my eyes. I feel conscious, in an artificial, manic way. Despite the strain, I can't let my eyes close.

His words encapsulate my brain every time I do.

To see him so vulnerable, to see him so in pain, to see him so desperate, to see him needing me.

Chills begin running up and down my body.

To remember the raw emotion in his voice, the tingle of his throat, his whispers in my ear.

I turn my head physically, as to shake off the flashbacks. It's getting harder and harder to resist.

Ironically, the more time passes, the clearer every detail becomes. When I was rudely awakened at 4 am by the aggravating ringtone, the last thing on my mind was enjoying anything.

But then hearing him.

Hearing his heavy breathing, his uneven gasps. The choked up way he said my name, the rasp stroking me gently.

It's fucked up that I feel this way about his breaking moments.

I thank the gods to how tired I was at that time, nowhere near the desperate mess I am now. If I had heard him like that, at this moment, instead of the blurry, disorientated version of myself I was earlier, I don't know what I would have done.

After 3 hours, I finally let myself I slip further and further into the lustful wants of my own memory.

A small, urgently frustrated thought prods at my head, demanding answers.

The trust in me he must have to allow me inside his head.

How close he feels that he's comfortable enough to show me his most vulnerable moments.

It has to mean something, right?

Our words echo softly in my head.

I'm special.

Super special.

I savor every single thing he said to me, even the smallest, most irrelevant sounds. Every wretched word that's escaped from his mouth in the darkest hours of the night is blown out of proportion.

I wasn't really thinking. I just called you, I guess.

Hope flickers in my chest, and I have to push down the conclusions I want to jump to so badly. I still can't help the sweetness filling me to the brim.

He called me. That has to mean something, right?

And the bit near the end. Where he was becoming guilty about waking me up. Even through all his stress, he still decided to worry about me?

Sometimes, I just want to tell him.

Sometimes I just want to spill everything. Take the risk. Make the jump, and pray I land.