A street, entirely cocooned in darkness but for the steady spill of light that the nearby lamppost gave.
Windows were black, ghostly vacant, and those that had curtains had them tightly drawn.
A faint orange glow erupted from one, which was ajar on its hinges - solitary against the others.
The hue of colour sourced back to an object deep inside the hollows of the single-bedroomed flat. Vintage, it had seen better days, but the shabby floral print was endearing and so it had a place between the confinements of the four walls. This lamp sat precariously on the table aside the bed which held two people, both alike in state of slumber. It offered light and warmth and cosiness. It was a reminder that things were still there. Dark meant invisible, and invisible was as good - or bad - as not even there at all. So, it stayed on.
One of the two stirred, the flutter of a moth wrenching her out of sleep.
She shuffled to be on her side and gently stroked back the wisps of hair so they were behind her ears.
Testing, she stretched out, wriggling her toes in the cotton sheets she'd dressed the bed in only yesterday. They crinkled, while the mattress creaked in protest. She paused. Carefully, her leg curled back up in line with the other, assuming the foetal position.
Everything was silent, oddly so. Even the curtains were bereft of a gentle breeze. They sat completely unmoving, instead of swinging in their usual comforting way. It felt as if nature was conspiring against her, doing everything to starve her of the soothing reassurance she needed.
Her eyes glanced across the bed. She felt it near instant relief to see Iain remained undisturbed. Innocence pooled on his eyelids; he was buried in sleep.
What a privilege, Lily thought, to accompany someone in their most vulnerable state. To see everything, minus the guard put up when one is conscious. It was so intimate, so trusting.
It felt beautifully raw.
As she watched him, she soaked up the feeling. It was almost like being a child at Christmas - peeking when you know you're not really supposed to, and feeling the surge of butterflies afterward when you see all your presents. Having him in her bed was better than piles and piles of presents. The emotion and attachment was unparalleled, the single most precious thing.
She gave a little contented sigh, realising how lucky she was. The world was asleep, and there were no expectations of her. In a sense, it was freeing. She could take in the view as much as she liked. It would be wonderful if moments could be saved to feel again and again. Things were so bitterly temporary - a little keepsake of an experience would numb so much inevitable pain.
She caught sight of the clothes that laid on the floor, strewn and scattered about. His jeans, her blouse. An odd sock, far too big to be hers. A smirk danced across her lips before she rested her head back on the pillow once more.
He gave her the most exquisite kind of happiness - if it weren't so lovely, it would be embarrassing. Her rationale felt flawed, ironically, because it wasn't really a rationale. No amount of logic or thought had gone into her decisions where he was concerned. Instead, copious amounts of spontaneity and recklessness had. It was a secret, and the secret involved tiptoeing round. Except, it was tiptoeing in the dark with blindfolds on. Clumsy movements on both their parts.
None of it made sense, and that was exactly why it did make sense. Finally she understood what those characters meant in the books and movies. Finally.
It was the way she was enveloped in the most protective warmth, yet her skin was clammy from the rush of emotion pent up inside her chest (that, or the fact Iain had been successful once again in unconsciously wrestling the blankets back to his side).
It was the way he was so blissfully resting, one arm above his head and one on his chest, and the fact that he always unknowingly positioned himself in that way.
It was the beautiful paradox - the not knowing, yet knowing all too well. It was the way in which he was mere inches up the mattress, but she felt closer than ever to him.
She knew she'd happily unravel within his arms and shed the strong exterior in less than a heartbeat. He made things different, he made her unafraid to fall.
As night edged closer and closer into the morning, her heart grew heavier.
For she realised they say:
"Some people don't know what they have until it's gone."
But, what about the ones who do know? The ones who never take anything for granted, yet things always slip away in the morning anyway? Who try their hardest to hold on to every stolen second, yet can only look on while those moments fade away again.
Isn't it so much worse for them?