Where Mornings Were Warm

The moment I was little, I thought growing up would solve everything. 

Back then, mornings felt lighter. 

We lived in somewhat apartment that was neither too big nor too small. 

Just enough. 

The walls were basic, little decayed in spots, but familiar. 

Everything had its place, and nothing truly altered. 

It wasn't luxurious. 

It was not poor. 

It was stable. 

Our living room and kitchen shared the same area. 

The table was modest, yet just enough for all of us. 

We always sat together on the couch, which had a tiny dip in the middle.

That's the part I remember most. 

Together. 

At night, we did not sleep in separate rooms. 

We remained close.  

Sometimes on the same bed, sometimes with blankets stretched out on the floor. 

It did not matter. 

Everything seemed complete as long as we were together. 

Safe.

Whole.

I've never questioned it.

I never questioned anything.

Mornings would bring pleasant, warm light through the window.

 It would spread throughout the room as if it belonged there like it was a part of us.  

And I would simply lie there, half-awake, listening to the gentle breathing around me.

That sound signaled everything was well. 

I had dreams then. 

Simple ones. 

I wanted to grow up quickly.  

I want to be someone greater than the little place in which I lived. 

Someone who grasped the world with clarity.

Someone who did not feel like they were constantly attempting to catch up.

I thought age meant freedom. 

I assumed this meant things would finally make sense.

I recall laughing more. 

Move without thinking.

Looking up at the sky, it seemed limitless in a reassuring way not distant or watchful.

Just... there.

And I remember them.

Not obviously.

Not anymore.

But I do remember how they felt.

Warm.

Complete.

As if nothing was missing.

Now when I wake up, everything feels different. 

The ceiling remains the same.

Pale. 

A little crack in the corner.

But now I've noticed it.

I always notice it. 

I feel like I am waiting for something to change.

I glance to my phone.7:12 AM.

The numbers flash briefly before stabilizing. 

I gaze at it for a bit longer than I should. 

Then I get up.

The flat has not altered.

Same walls.

Same furnishings.

The same silence.

However, it feels emptier. 

Not physically.

Just in a manner that I cannot express. 

The day repeats. 

Brush your teeth. 

Wash your face. 

Get dressed.

I stood in front of a mirror.

There's a girl gazing at me. 

Older than before.

I'm not old enough to grasp anything.

But not young enough to disregard it.

For a time, I attempt to recall what it was like to sleep without thinking.

To wake up with this weight off my chest. 

I could. 

Outside, the world continues to operate regularly.

People walk by without looking.

Conversations blend together.

Everything follows a pattern that I don't quite grasp.

I walk.

Every steps seems heavier.

As if I was holding something unseen.

Something that evolved alongside me.

The sky spreads over the horizon. 

Endless.

But it doesn't feel as comfy anymore.

It has a sense of awareness.

The sunshine reaches my body.

Warm. 

Too warm.

It lasts longer than it should. 

Pushing.

As if it expects something from me.

I don't know what.

By the time I go to school, the sensation has set in.

Quiet.

Unavoidable.

The classroom is noisy. Chairs scraping.

Voices are overlapping. 

Someone laughed too hard. 

I sat beside the window.

I believe I've always sat there.

The teacher speaks. 

Their voice fades in and out, as if it is straining to remain linked to the environment.

I attempt to focus.

But something draws my gaze away.

The clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Nothing.

Then Tick.

I freeze.

Nobody reacts.

I look around.

Everybody is normal.

Perfectly normal. 

I look at the clock again. 

It travels steadily.

As if nothing happened.

Perhaps I dreamt it. 

By lunchtime, the sky appears different.

Not enough for others to notice. 

This is quite enough for me. 

The light appears dull.

Muted.

It's as if something stands between it and the outside world.

I gaze at the sun.

It hangs there.

Heavy.

Watching.

"Hey." I gasp. 

Someone stands alongside me. 

I did not hear them approach.

"Are you okay?"

"I nod. 

"Yeah."

They wait.  

As if they are expecting something real.

Then they depart.

I strive to recall their faces.

I cannot.

On the walk home, everything seems loose.

As like it's not holding together correctly.

The sun goes down. 

Its warmth spreads across everything.

Strong.

Unavoidable.

Then darkness arrives.

Soft.

Quiet.

The moon emerges.

The light is soft.

Familiar.

I stop walking.

Tension hardens in my chest.

Not in pain.

Do not be frightened.

Something else.

Something I nearly recognized. 

"They seem like relatives". 

The thought occurs immediately. 

I shook my head.

"That doesn't make sense." 

But it does not go away.

Then something deeper occurs.

A pull.

Slow.

Endless.

Hungry.

I freeze.

For a time, it appears like someone is missing.

It seems like something has been snatched from me.

Something I used to own.

But I'm not sure what.

That night, I stood in front of the mirror again. 

I don't look away. 

The female looking back at me appears exhausted.

Older.

Not in years.

Something else.

I move.

She follows.

Perfectly.

But wait a second.

Just a second.

She falls behind.

The lights flicker.

I don't recall touching the switch. 

The room is filled with darkness.

I lay down.

Alone.

It is peaceful now.

Too quiet.

When I was younger, we would sleep together.

Close.

Warm.

Complete.

At this point there is room where there was none before.

And somehow that feels wrong.

My eyes shut.

When I was younger, I believed that growing up would make things clearer.

It would make me whole.

But now it feels like the reverse.

Like the older I become.

The more something is taken away.

And somewhere in the silence, just beyond what I can sense.

Something awaits.

Being observed.

As if it had always been there.

Even back then.

When everything seemed complete.