when he sleeps, it’s obvious that he tries to make himself as small as he can. it’s
clear that he’s trying to make himself unnoticeable.
he sleeps with the covers pulled up to his head and his knees to his chest, hands
at his face while he rests on his side. it’s a stark contrast to how he is when he’s awake,
acting like he has to be the biggest presence in the room at any given moment.
none of it, though, is to say that he sleeps silently. he doesn’t snore, doesn’t fidget,
but he talks. whispers, really. mumbles.
she doesn’t know how to tell him, so she doesn’t. she lies; says that he snores
and he should have bought her earplugs the first time she stayed over. his laugh is
well worth the pang of guilt she feels at lying to him.
plus, it isn’t like it’s all that disturbing. it doesn’t keep her awake, or anything, it’s
just that she wishes she’d expected it, that she hadn’t woken up in the first time to
slurred, almost-indistinguishable mumbles from the other side of the bed as he curled
in on himself even more and the red LED’s of the alarm clock blinked three am.
a warning, she thinks as she cards her fingers through his hair while they sit on the sofa,
would have been nice. he could have told me that i’ll eventually wake up to him
muttering people’s names.
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