. . . it's hard to heed the tides when all the world is underwater. harder still to turn away when he's been anchored to the beach; every time he blinks, teddy finds himself cast right back out to that stormy shoreline, letting the waves crash against his calves. his knees. in this way, he's spent half his life watching rotten planks wash up from the ocean.
in his kinder dreams, the driftwood wears the faces of those who didn’t make it. in the worst,it’s not the driftwood that the sea returns. either way, he wakes up choking on a silent scream.
he never thinks to say anything until the water's reached his chest - but by then, it's already too late, the flood surging in through all the cracks in his consciousness. his sternum splinters under the weight. with every straining breath, he's drowning, sadness clogging his lungs until his body's heavy; he’s getting bad again. it is bad. but knowing that doesn't make it any easier to keep his head above water.
nor does it lighten leaden limbs, or wipe the salt from ruddy cheeks, too empty of life to drag himself out of bed in the morning. his phone piles up with one too many unanswered texts - and he suspects that's why @mcrtuarium appears in his kitchen.
" i put a ziti in your freezer, and a bunch of random groceries in your fridge. " nora says.
his throat closes up, and he's so ashamed that for a moment, he thinks he might actually be sick with it. she looks so put-together; hair freshly cut and dyed, new clothes, spare keys still gripped in her off hand.
there's a pile of dirty dishes growing mold in the sink behind her. for a second, he considers just stepping back into the dark.
"...you didn't. um. have - to - do that," teddy finally manages. his voice is raw and graveled from disuse, another dead giveaway, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut just so he doesn't start crying. he should be better than this. he shouldn't be worrying nora; she has more important things to do than help a grown adult scrape his life back together.
( what a waste, what a waste, it should've been him that died instead of all the others. )
"sorry. i - thanks." talking wears him out. he fidgets with the sleeve of his t-shirt, picks at his fingernails, avoids looking at her. then he feels even worse, because she came all this way to see him and he isn't being a very good friend. he can't muster the smile he wants to in reunion.
