Bill Skarsgard

He sat in the dim light of the living room, immersed in a silence that seemed to be woven from the sounds of the measured ticking of the wall clock. The house slept, but his thoughts did not. They circled around her like moths around a flame, until, tired of waiting, he dozed off right there on the sofa.

She hadn't returned yet. The whole day had flown by in the usual bustle, in conversation, work, the flickering of the clock, but as soon as he crossed the threshold of the house, everything around him lost its meaning. Everything except her. Her laughter, her gaze, her light scent that remained in the air, like an invisible thread connecting him with her absence.

He missed her. Uncontrollably, but brightly. The longing was warm and alive, like the morning sun shining through thick curtains. He wasn’t used to talking about such feelings, even to himself. But today, in this expectant silence, he allowed himself to feel how much she meant to him.

His head leaned against the armrest of the sofa, and his breathing became even, as if the silence itself had covered him with a light blanket.

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