#whimper

The first night, the hairs on your arm rise noticeably enough for you to stop mid-sketch. You look up at the door but, on finding no one, look back down and continue drawing your moth orchid. The next night much is the same; mid-sketch you sit back to take stock of your completed sketch and bring your cup of steaming tea to your lips when a shiver passes over you. Instinctively you clutch your cup closer to your chest and this time you carefully assess the darkness surrounding the entrance of the cafe. Nothing. You sigh and shake your head, feeling very much a fool.

On the third night, you enter the cafe with hackles raised. Until now you’ve never considered the possibility that your late night forays would put you in danger. The cafe is very close to your apartment and the street is lined with other stores that keep night hours, and on top of that the cafe owner knows your routine so well that often your tea awaits your arrival. 

Perhaps your sleeplessness has made you stupid. 

Either way, you sit in your booth carefully that night and periodically check your surroundings to see… what exactly you’re not sure, but you want it to be either something or nothing. 

It ends up being nothing, but you don’t make any progress on the orchid.

A few uneventful nights pass quietly and your nervous system resets. The experience is alarming – unused to hypervigilance, you are experiencing a type of sleeplessness you’ve never experienced before. To say you’re exhausted would be an extreme understatement.

On the nth night of feeling like this, you trudge your way to the cafe with your bag and exhaustion in tow. The soft shoop of the door proves to be Pavlovian in its effect on you; shoulders sagging with relief, chest loosening, and eyes drooping. You nod at the owner who gives you a sympathetic grimace, take the cup of tea from him and try to ignore the rattle of the cup on the saucer.

You slink into your seat and close your eyes. Every cell of your body yearns for rest, yet it simply won’t come. 

Part of the misery of insomnia is the loosening of the brain – it feels like the screws that keep your sanity in place are unwinding just enough for minimal but constant leakage of energy and thought and feeling. The result is the painful irony of every waking moment feeling like a dream and the brain sparking to life when you try to sleep.

You’ve been making a few mistakes at work and dropping things at home. Albeit small, the mistakes make you anxious and so the vicious loop grows teeth. 

You look down at your bag and notice that it looks suspiciously empty. You check it and yep, you’ve forgotten to bring your materials. It’s happened a total of zero times and this is just the icing on the fucking shit cake. 

You’re so wrapped up in your monologue of self-pity that you miss entirely the swing of the cafe door. The soft, slow, heavy footsteps do not register at all until you are suddenly, piercingly aware of a body across you.

Heavy eyes open to the figure of Simon across from you, enrobed in black and a sentinel of seriousness. 

You’re struggling to understand his sudden appearance. 

After gaping for more than a moment, you manage to say, “Alright?”

Simon nods. 

“You’ve been away for a long time.”

He nods again. 

“It’s good to see you.” Out of politeness, but gladness, too.

He nods. “Same ‘ere.” He sounds as though he hasn’t spoken in a long time.

Even with your hazy mind, you can tell there’s something off about him.

So you try again, “are you okay?”

He evens you with a look. “Are you?”

Perhaps it should frustrate you, and it would on any other occasion, but you get the distinct feeling that he is being as genuine as you are.

You turn to glance at the moon. 

“No.”

He waits.

“It’s going to sound crazy but–” you frown, “for a few days it felt like I was being watched.”

You catch yourself and shake your head. “It is crazy… anyway, I’ve been a little nuts about it since. Sleep hasn’t been this bad in a long time. Maybe I’m just feeling a bit loony because it’s a full moon.”

You offer a wan smile that he doesn’t return.

Simon takes a deep breath. 

“I got injured. That’s why I was away for so long.”

“Oh! Are you okay? How bad was it?”

His heavy eyes answer for you. “Oh.”

“Mm. Was in 'ospital for a while. Got discharged two weeks ago.”

His gaze skitters away and for some strange reason, your breath quickens.

“Wasn’t ready to come back 'ere just yet… So I just waited…” 

He meets your gaze again, “and watched.”

Your insides are set alight. As bright as a supernova.

Tears jump forth. Their presence makes you lower your head.

Maybe you should be suspicious. Maybe you should be relieved to know your instincts were right. Maybe you should be afraid. 

You should be all those things, but above all else you feel taken care of, that maybe your fear of slipping away without anybody holding your hand or sending you off with a kind gaze won’t come true. 

As a child you had believed in a benevolent universe, and then your sister’s death had razed that belief to the ground. The acknowledgement that someone real, someone with a heart that beat and blood that rushed was looking out for you is almost too much to bear.

Simon’s hands travel over the table to cover your shaking fingers. 

Neither of you move to wipe them away. 

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi