We used to stick close together, unwilling, yet close. Kicking and pushing and shoving for more space on a single bed in a tiny bedroom. Eventually we'd each find our perfect position, the perfect share of an old purple blanket that fit perfectly under our heels in the cold of the AC.
Some days we'd read under the yellow lights.
Some days we'd argue in hushed tones.
Some days we'd talk about things so very random and insignificant.
Some days we'd pretend to sleep when our parents checked in on us, holding our breaths together, giggling proudly at our supposedly successful deception.
Some days we'd dream about what we'd do when we each finally got our own space, got rid of each other.
Some days I'd wake up late in the night, disoriented, and I'd hear your breathing, your warmth next to me — and I'd go back to sleep, for everything was good when we were together. Everything was messy when we were together. Everything was perfect when we were together.
Now I'm alone in this huge bedroom.
Two empty beds beside me.
Too much space. Too much silence.
The lights are bright. The room is cold. The blanket is new.
I wake up late in the night, a feeling of unease chilling my bones, in a foreign room that echoes. I look beside me. I look at the two empty beds. You're in the house. Yet I'm alone.
Where are you?
Will I soon wake up in a tiny room wrapped under an old purple blanket? Will I wake up and find you beside me? Will your warmth lull me back to my slumber? Or will I fade away into a fitful, elusive sleep?