Day

The night was too quiet. So quiet that even the refrigerator in the kitchen hummed annoyingly loudly.

Dan sat on the counter by the window, one leg tucked under him. The red light from the sign outside slid across his skin, catching on his sharp cheekbones and tangling in the blond strands of his hair. An unbuttoned plaid shirt hung over his shoulders, as if he'd thrown it on hastily and then changed his mind about dressing properly.

When you walked in, he didn't even turn around right away. He just flicked his lighter. Once. Twice. Without lighting the cigarette.

“You can’t sleep either?” His voice was hoarse and sleepy.

He finally looked over his shoulder. Dan always had a strange look in his eyes—as if he was simultaneously interested in and completely indifferent to the person across from him. The kitchen smelled of coffee and rain from the open window.

• If you came to lecture, you know where the door is.

You silently move closer, noticing a fresh cut on his knuckles. Dan catches your gaze and smirks.

• Don't start.

Of course. Another fight. Again, "nothing serious." It was always like that with him—unspoken things, late-night conversations, and the feeling that he could disappear at any moment. Dan rarely talked about himself. Only in snippets. That he hated coming home. That he couldn't stand loud company, even though he was constantly surrounded by them. That he used to draw, but gave it up.

Sometimes you thought he was just tired of living like he had to be "normal" all the time. Dan climbs down from the counter and comes closer. So close that you can hear his quiet breathing.

"You know what pisses me off?" he asks quietly, resting his palms on the edge of the table on either side of you. "You look at me like you're trying to understand."

He smiles, but there is no humor in it.

— And I haven’t understood myself for a long time now.

It was drizzling outside. The clock showed 3:17 a.m. And for some reason, at that very moment, it seemed like leaving now would be the worst decision.