On the verge of relapse

It's not easy. It's not going to be easy. Nobody ever said it was going to be. I never believed that it was going to be. But being prepared doesn't make it any less hard.
...

    "So yeah, West, I'm different. And you can tell the world if you want to because I'm tired of pretending to someone I'm not."
    "Claire, shut up."


To be able to fly away from those that can't see that I'm different. To fly away in the arms of someone--the only one--who understands. To fly...
...

She stares at the phone before returning it again, un-dialed, to the table. She lets her eyes lose focus as she stares unseeing at the floor, wrestling in her mind the gap between logic and longing. The hole in her chest aches of withdrawal; it is hard to remind herself that the few words she yearns to exchange, as kind as they could be, would break down all that she has worked to build recently.

Sleepless nights have left her disoriented, floating through her days. While those around her know her situation, they don't understand. Hours of insomnia have her mind racing through the witching-hours, re-living three years in just a few nights. When her mind finally rests, she notices that she still sleeps on one side of the bed.

Sunlight pours through the window and warms the room, drawing a rectangle of light on the bed where she lies, still awake--she could see the dust dance through the rays if she cares to notice--if anything, she feels colder. A room that had once felt warm and cozy now feels like a giant, unfamiliar expanse that she couldn't fill if she tried; everything seems to be missing, even though nothing in the room has been moved. Her lip trembles.

Decided and determined, she shakes off the weakness and picks up the phone. A groggy voice greets her.

    "What are you doing?"
    "Sleeping."
    "Can I come by?"
    "Now? Sure, why?"
    "I can't sleep and I can't call."
    "Sure."

The drive is short; she hasn't bothered to change out of her pajamas. Eyes sore to the sunlight, she lets herself in through the door that has been left open for her. She knocks softly before she enters the darkness of his room.

Her eyes quickly adjust and she can see the shape of his body still beneath the covers--he's left a side of the bed empty for her. She crawls in, staying close to the edge. He doesn't turn over to face her when he speaks; it's the same sleep-filled voice from on the phone.

    "You okay?"
    "I haven't slept; it feels so empty. All I want to do is call him, and I know I can't."
    "I know."
    "Yeah, I know you know."

There is a break in the meagre conversation, but the silence is comfortable. While there is a world of space between their two bodies, she can feel the emptiness melting in to something softer; the ache subsides. He has already begun to softly snore, and she is finally starting to drift off into a long awaited dream. Exhausted as she is, she speaks quietly enough so as not to fully wake him, her own eyes closed as she gives in to unconsciousness.

    "Thanks."

Just as sleep overtakes her, there is a rustling next to her and she feels his hand blindly clasp her wrist. She is warm.