Currently reading : spiritual him (reenacted)
Fabian opens his eyes and it’s morning, and immediately he remembers why he chose to sleep in. Nothing is real when his eyes are closed, even if he is just lying there awake. It’s when he opens his eyes that his dreams die in an instant, and everything in his temple is exactly as he left the night before.
He remembers the pagan’s smiles first. They said goodbye just five hours ago-two hours after they met for the first time-and the smiles are still fresh in his brain. He squints his eyes, closes them as tightly as he can, trying desperately to suffocate the vision out of his mind. But it remains, and soon after he begins to remember everything else: The bad ethnic tattoos, the light and absurd blond hair, the dirty leather belts, the way that he would turn to look at him even when other people were talking.
After a few beats it becomes unbearable to lie still in bed, so he gets up to shower. He runs the warm water over his face and presses deeply over his eyes, despite his skin feeling smooth and clean even before he got in the shower. He starts to get ready for work, only to find that his hair won’t lie as flat as he likes. His hair has a natural wave to it that he usually succeeds in taming except when it’s humid outside and his hair refuses to obey him, opting rather to curl and bounce and dance on top of his head for all to see.
The entire working day is productive. He finishes everything he had planned to, and creates and finishes several other projects on the spot. In the brief moments that he doesn’t keep himself busy, he hears them laughing. The sound was warm and felt like honey, and he had heard it many times the night before. He’d really wanted to make them laugh, and each time they laughed there was a sense of victory, that everything was going to be ok.
He is exhausted.
The day catches up with him as he walks into his room again, and locks himself. He can’t get them out of his head, and he no longer has the energy to fight. His eyes looking even blacker in the light, his skin looking as smooth as it feels, he places his face in his hands and lets it continue, breathing his own whispers.