Edited ✔️
"And then the moon asked, "Who made you stare at me?"
〰️ DECEMBER FOURTEENTH 〰️
Emerie Cynthia Rainn
As I slowly open my eyes, the warm embrace of the morning sunlight greets me, gently streaming through the window. However, a sudden realization hits me as I take in my surroundings; this is his window.
Confusion and panic instantly flood my senses as I come to terms with the fact that it's already morning. With a sense of urgency, I jolt upright, hastily pulling the blanket away from my body.
How could I have slept for such an extended period of time? I distinctly remember informing him that I only needed an hour, not half a day!
Frustration begins to build up inside me, prompting me to instinctively massage the side of my neck in an attempt to alleviate the tension that has accumulated.
Where is he anyway?
Surely, he wouldn't have left me here all alone..
Would he?
I scan the room, noticing that everything is back in its place as if it was never touched. Just as my thoughts begin to spiral out of control, his raspy voice shatters the silence. "Good morning," he warmly greets me.
Swiftly turning to face him, my confusion is palpable. His cheeks appear slightly puffed, and his hair is in disarray. "Did you sleep here?" I inquire, a blend of surprise and concern lacing my voice.
He rubs his eyes wearily before responding, "Well, temporarily, yes. My ex-wife is taking the house, I've been house hunting and staying here in the meantime."
"My receptionist typically arrives around eight forty-five in the mornings. So, if you would like to join me for breakfast, you are more than welcome to. However, if you prefer not to, you're free to leave whenever you want. No rush.."
Realization dawns upon me, mixed with a concoction of gratitude and frustration." I explicitly told you one hour," I reminded him, my tone slightly accusatory; as I ignore his offer.
Meeting his gaze, I find myself unable to decipher the emotions reflected in his eyes. Softly, he speaks, "You did, but you needed the rest. I didn't want to disturb your sleep." His gaze searches mine, as if hoping for understanding.
"I didn't need-" I begin to protest, but he interrupts me, his expression turning serious. "Look, I know you haven't been taking your medication. I thought you could get more rest here, in your safe space," he explains, his voice growing stronger as he clears his throat.
My safe space..
The same space that keeps the nightmares away..
Frowning, I choose not to comment and instead focus on folding the blanket in my hands with care.
"So, breakfast?" he asks once more, observing me silently, patiently waiting for a response.
I nod, contemplating his offer. "I'll go, but on one condition," I reply, returning the blanket to its original place before turning to face him.
His eyebrows furrow, intrigued by my condition, yet he nods in agreement. "Okay, what's the condition?"
"Promise me that you won't let me fall asleep in here again. It's not your responsibility to watch over me," I assert firmly, desiring to regain some control.
He hesitates for a moment, his expression thoughtful, before eventually nodding. "Alright, I promise," he assures me, his voice filled with sincerity.
"Okay, then.. I'll go," I say, taking a moment to observe his attire - a plain black sweater and gray night pants.
"But, you don't have anything to change into. Do you want me to drop you off at your house to change, or...?" he trails off, contemplating the options. I bite my lip, feeling a hint of uneasiness.
"I do have a jacket you could borrow, and some sweatpants; but they might be a little big, they have strings that you could use to tighten them. But if that makes you uncomfortable, then..." he hesitates, unsure of what to suggest next.
"I'd be fine with wearing them," I interject, my voice reassuring. "Do you also.. have an extra toothbrush?"
"Of course, let me go grab everything," he responds, and I try to conceal the flutter of nerves in my stomach as he exits the office, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Is this normal?
Having such a casual conversation with my therapist?
Shouldn't there be more boundaries?
I can't help but feel that something is changing, and it doesn't feel entirely right.
Normally, I just come in every couple of days to talk about my problems and then leave.
I've never even seen him outside of this office until I bumped into him Saturday, and we've never been this casual with each other.
It's strange, and it's making me question the nature of our relationship.
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Emerie Cynthia Rainn
As we exit the building together, side by side, we take extra care to ensure that there is no accidental physical contact between us.
'This shows a sense of awareness and consideration for personal space.'
Unconsciously, I find myself taking deep breaths, perhaps due to a mix of anticipation and a desire to calm my nerves.
The scent of his cologne lingers in the jacket, leaving a lasting impression on my senses.
Despite the jacket being slightly larger than my usual size, I've always found comfort in wearing loose-fitting clothes, especially when I'm out in public.
It gives me a sense of ease and freedom of movement. There's just something about the way the fabric drapes over my body that makes me feel at ease and confident.
The sweatpants, on the other hand, fit well around my legs, hugging them. However, as he mentioned, I had to tighten the strings around my waist to ensure a secure fit. I even took the extra step of rolling them up a few times to achieve the perfect length.
But what truly captivates me is the scent of these clothes. It's a familiar fragrance that I find myself drawn to, almost addictively. The aroma of the jacket tempts me to keep inhaling; as if I can't get enough of it.
'It's a sensory experience that I find both comforting and intoxicating, creating a unique connection between me and the clothes I'm wearing.'
As I continue walking beside him, I couldn't help but notice the way his outfit fits him perfectly.
His shirt hugs his torso, accentuating his physique in a way that is both subtle and alluring. The fabric appears to be high-quality, with a softness that suggests comfort and luxury.
The color of his shirt complements his complexion, bringing out the warmth in his skin tone. It's a shade that exudes confidence and sophistication, making him stand out effortlessly in a crowd. 'Something I try to stay away from..'
The attention to detail in his clothing choices is evident, as even the smallest elements, such as the buttons or stitching, appear meticulously chosen.
His pants are tailored impeccably, with a sleek and slim fit that elongates his legs. The fabric drapes perfectly, creating clean lines and a polished look.
The choice of a dark color adds a touch of elegance and versatility, allowing him to effortlessly transition from a casual outing to a more formal setting.
'It's not just the aesthetics of his clothes that captivate me, but also the way he carries himself..'
He moves with a natural grace and confidence, as if his clothing is an extension of his personality. There's a certain poise and self-assuredness that emanates from him, making him even more attractive.
Attractive?
Well, I guess he is quite attractive..
"What are you thinking so hard about?" he asks, pulling me out of my reverie.
"Oh, um, nothing really," I reply calmly, hoping to hide my true thoughts. I raise my head to look at him, only to be met with a chuckle.
"You say it's nothing, but your furrowed eyebrows, clenched jaw, and tight frown tells me a different story," he observes.
As he points it out, I realize just how tense I actually was and immediately relax my face.
"Is something bothering you again?" he asks, just as the traffic light turns red, halting pedestrians from crossing the street. Unaware of the signal, I continue walking, but he grabs my jacket and pulls me back just in time.
"Careful, Ms. Emerie," he warns, with a concerned tone in his voice.
"Sorry, no, I'm just... I'm not really thinking about much these days," I respond, feeling a bit vulnerable.
"Is that normal?"
"Well, there could be a number of reasons why you're not thinking," he explains, his tone gentle and understanding.
"It could be due to stress, lack of sleep, or overworking, which can lead to a phenomenon called brain fog, where your mind goes blank and you have trouble generating thoughts. However, it could also be a result of past trauma, which we refer to as depersonalization. It's a long word, I know. But ultimately, it depends on how you spend your free time and cope with your experiences." As he finishes his sentence, the traffic light turns green, and he guides me forward, his touch gentle.
Lost in my thoughts, I find solace in the sleeves of his jacket, which extend past my hands.
My trauma, he mentions...
I am perpetually shattered, with no hope of ever recovering from the deep wounds of my past. The prospect of healing seems insurmountable.
"I suppose you're right... My traumatic experiences. Senseless trauma," I mutter, my hands finding its way in the pockets of his jacket. He continues to guide me, positioning himself closer to the bustling Main Street.
"Please refrain from such negative self-talk. Trauma has the potential to shape a person, and it need not always be viewed as a dreadful affliction. It can pave the way for personal growth and transformation. However, given what you have endured, I comprehend why you may feel this way. What you went through was beyond comprehension. Naturally, it will take time, and you may never feel entirely whole again. But that is why I am here, to offer you a listening ear," he concludes as we arrive at a familiar diner. My eyes widen as I take in the structure.
This place used to be our Sunday morning sanctuary, and my breath quickens.
"What's wrong? Do you not like this diner?" He turns to me, concern etched on his face, and I hastily shake my head.
"No, no, it's alright... I'm just... It's been a while since I last visited. Truly, it's fine. I'm fine," I ramble, before biting my lip as I meet his gaze.
I can sense my nails digging into my palm, a desperate attempt to prevent myself from fleeing this diner. He took the time to bring me here, and I didn't want to be impolite.
"Alright, if you have any issues, just let me know, and we can leave at any time, okay?" I nod in agreement as he takes the lead, guiding us through the door.
As I step inside, I exhale a shaky breath, overwhelmed by the enticing aromas of syrup, waffles, and freshly brewed coffee.
A female waiter greets him with a warm smile, but her gaze quickly dismisses me.
"How many?" Her deep accent rises slightly in pitch, making me wince internally.
"Two," he replies, casting a quick glance in my direction before the waiter does the same. Her smile falters as she finally registers my presence, practically hiding behind him, our height difference starkly evident.
"Please, follow me," she instructs, turning away. Her red and white top paired with black slacks makes her uniform appear more polished than much of my own wardrobe at home.
Before he follows her, he gently positions me in front of him, allowing me to take the lead. Instantly, I freeze at the sudden shift, acutely aware of the number of people in the diner. It feels as though all eyes are fixed on me, scrutinizing my every move.
With a soft tap in the center of my back, I begin to walk, my hands clenched tighter than ever. I quickly realize that I've been holding my breath and start to take slow, deliberate inhales.
As we finally slide into a booth, the waiter sets down the menus in front of us. I watch him as he carefully removes his jacket, placing it in his lap.
We both observe his movements, but for entirely different reasons.
"I'll have a water... and what about you?" He dismisses the waiter, his attention solely on me.
I swallow hard, feeling uncomfortable under this newfound focus.
"Just a black coffee," I reply, grabbing one of the menus and swiftly placing it in front of my face.
"Well, my name is Aubrey. I'll be right back with your drinks. Today's special is the omelettes," she concludes quickly before turning to fetch our beverages.
As I watch her leave, peeking over the edge of the menu, I feel his fingers gently curl around it, gradually pulling it back toward him.
"Are you okay?" he asks. I nod, avoiding his gaze as I return my focus to the menu.
"I'm just hungry, and I can't read the menu if you keep pulling it away from me," I say, attempting to sound lighthearted. He offers a gentle smile before releasing his grip, causing the menu to bounce back into my face.
In truth, I lied.
I'm not genuinely hungry. Typically, I skip breakfast unless I've forgotten to eat the day before—'an unhealthy habit I'm fully aware of, yet feel powerless to change.'
I prefer to sip my coffee and be on my way; eating in front of others has become a source of discomfort for me. While drinking poses no issue, food has become a different story altogether.
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"I dedicated my time to prepare this meal for you! Now, you're going to eat it and savor it like the obedient girl you are, right?" His grip on my cheeks is nearly unbearable as he forces this repulsive concoction he refers to as soup into my mouth.
"Fucking eat it!"
My eyes are swollen from endless tears, and my throat raw from the screams of anguish that have escaped me.
Why did it have to be me?
The same question always echoes in the back of my mind...
Why?
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I blink back the memories, reminding myself that now is not the time to dwell on them.
The waiter returns, and I quickly take a sip of my warm coffee, relishing the comforting warmth it provides.
"Are we ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?" she asks.
"I know what I want; do you?" His voice draws my attention just as I take another sip.
I nod, fully aware of my usual order—it's the same thing I always get.
"I'll have an order of French toast with a side of honey," I say. She nods, jotting it down before turning her attention to him, awaiting his choice.
"I'll take a big fry," he replies.
My eyes widen at that; it seems like a lot of food. But then again, I've never really seen him eat before, so maybe he can handle that much?
"Alright, it will be ready in a few... I'll take these menus," she says, and I hand mine over without hesitation.
However, when she reaches for his menu, her hand lingers a moment longer than necessary. My eyebrows furrow in confusion—does she genuinely care about her job, or does she flirt with every male customer like this?
I roll my shoulders, attempting to shake off the tension. Sleeping in the chair may have been comfortable at first, but now it feels anything but suitable for a long rest. I focus on the clinking of dishes and quiet chatter around us, trying to distract myself from the unease that's creeping in.
As I sit there, my mind drifts between the bustling atmosphere of the café and the growing discomfort in my chest. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries wafts through the air, mingling with the sounds of laughter and conversation. It's a stark contrast to the chaos that often fills my thoughts.
I watch the waiter as she moves between tables, her smile warm as she interacts with customers. It's evident she enjoys her job, but her lingering touch on his menu makes me question her intentions. Is it simply friendliness, or something more?
My attention shifts back to him, who seems unfazed by the waitress's behavior. He's now engrossed in his phone, scrolling through messages, a slight smile playing on his lips.
I wonder what he finds so amusing?
The moment feels surreal—like we're in two different worlds despite sitting across from each other.
I take another sip of my coffee, hoping to find solace in its warmth. Yet, the unease lingers, gnawing at me. I can't shake the feeling that this moment is fleeting and that I should savor it while I can.
The chatter around us fades as I retreat back into my thoughts, contemplating what lies ahead and whether I can truly enjoy this peaceful interlude?
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