What am I thinking of?
A light clinking cracked the air as Roy's grip on his drink tightened suddenly, entirely outside of his own volition—something had occurred to him just then that disturbed him. His thoughts had been wandering innocently, absently, his perception filled only with the bland color of the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair. His sole connection to reality had been the cold pressure of the glass in his fingers which had begun to slip, roused to do so by a thought of—something.
Startled by the sound more than the sensation, Roy instinctively lifted his head to inspect the room. There were no ghosts to meet his sharp gaze. There was not even an echo of the gasp he had just breathed; it had been swallowed, utterly and entirely, by the silence.
He was alone.
Indeed, everyone had left the office early—even Riza, though of course she had not allowed Roy the luxury of staying behind without cajoling him into assuring her that he would return home soon to get some rest. Only he had remained past when the golden glow of the sunset had faded from the office. Then, the bottle had emerged from its dark prison under his desk, and he had enjoyed the company of two full glasses already, and flirted with a third. It was exactly what he had wanted: solitude, the temporary comfort of letting his worries swirl away in the silence, descending into a dark and lonely state of mind.
It was then that something strange had come to him: a sensation not of being watched, but of being known. Though startling, it was not frightening, but it did seem to clash oddly with the scenery he had surrounded himself with. He replaced his glass on the desk, and slid the bottle under the desk out of sight with his toe.
No, I'm not thinking of it—someone is thinking of—?
The window was open; Roy rose and stuck his head out, peering into the falling darkness upon the street below. Then he promptly shook himself, in wonderment of what had possessed him to do such a thing. What had he expected to find? Riza had left at least an hour before—
Ah… Riza. The thought, the notion of not being alone. Never being alone anymore.
It was ridiculous to think—wasn't it? As if neither of them could ever be alone, simply because of the way they felt, because of notions defined by words they had never even exchanged, not really. The cool evening air was not mitigated by any band of metal warmed by his blood: there was no ring. He could move easily, freely without impediment by any sort of red thread wound about his finger: there was no bond of fate. His heartbeat was slow and assured, comforting and warm and never heavy, never thick as if it were a cord of rope in a tight knot: there was no connection. He was unattached, disconnected—alone.
And yet—and yet. A feeling.
It was not conceit—but a feeling, yes, a feeling. There was no ring and no thread of fate and no corporeal connection, and yet there was this feeling. This feeling that was born of a moment in which, he was sure, there was something that existed between two people that rendered them distant and close simultaneously. Something that existed to tie them together because they felt connected.
—because in that moment, he was sure, he had been thinking of Riza, too…
The glass was returned to its drawer; the bottle, half-empty, continued to sulk under the desk. He had promised he wouldn't stay after long, hadn't he? So he could get some rest. His heart was warm and comforting but not heavy, beating slowly and assuredly, likely at least a little out-of-time with someone else's, someone who Roy was not with. He knew that— and that was enough.
Roy left for the cold walk home, feeling a little warmer. The door closing on his empty office felt a little less sad. The distance he had to cross before he could rest felt a little smaller. He felt as if he was being wrapped in an embrace, closing warmly around his heart in the stead of his body, never wanting to, and never willing to let go.