— alexithymia.
@crxjace:
on some days, castor wakes up with a heavy weight on his chest and a sinking feeling in his gut. he coins these days the “grey days” in his journals, and on these days, everything feels off and he can’t understand why. it’s just that he opens his eyes and all of a sudden, everything feels wrong—the way that he talks, the way that he thinks, the way that he behaves, even the way that he breathes. there’s no logical reasoning behind it—but then again, when has feeling ever had anything to do with logic?
when the ravenclaw woke up this morning, it was still dark out—if he doesn’t spend the night wandering around the castle, he’s usually up before dawn to see the sunrise. but when he blinked the sleep away from his eyes in exchange for the darkness of his dorm room, he could already feel it—the familiar, unwelcomed, and uncomfortable heaviness. he doesn’t go out to see the sunrise. instead, he pulls the covers over his head and curls in on himself. he doesn’t fall back asleep, but instead wracks his brain for answers—he’s done it a million times before. but by the time the sun filters into the room and his roommates rouse themselves awake, hours have passed, and he still doesn’t have the answers he wants—maybe he never will.
he gets out of bed nonetheless and goes about his day—he’s too stubborn to stay in for things like this and also, he’s pretty sure he has an exam today. the grey days are always strange he’s come to find—colors are always dull and conversations are always muted. he navigates through them in a sort of daze and this “grey day” passes by with a blur. by the time supper has finished, he wonders to himself whether or not anyone noticed—he’d gone right up to the astronomy tower right after for some reading, but the book goes unread. instead it rests unopened beside him while he’s got his knees pulled to his chest and his arms crossed on top of them to cradle his head—he stares into space.
he hadn’t breathed a word of it to any of his friends—he doesn’t know how to—but maybe someone caught on to his strangeness? but he’s always been strange, he reasons to himself—offbeat, screwy, freakish, weird- “stop.” it’s a soft command that startles him into awareness—he hadn’t even realized he’d been talking out loud. he lifts his head up to search for the owner of the voice—it doesn’t take long for his eyes to settle on the source. “jace.” he regards the gryffindor with a soft call of his name. “what are you doing up here?”