Attachment Theory, Disorder and Treatment.
Evelyn doesn't see him. She can hear him. And this is how she knows that he's crying. "Jack?" she whispers, as she fumbles around on the small night stand next to her bed before she grasps onto her manual alarm clock. Just to make sure that she didn't accidentally forget to set her alarm.

Obviously, she didn't.

Next, she tries connecting the arrows to something else, already in her mind. Ah. Yes. Three A.M. "Jack?" she repeats again. Her eyes are beginning to adjust. They adjust to darkness, yet she can see small streaks of pale flesh from where the open blinds-- which she had forgotten to close-- allow in six slants of moonlight which hit Jack's pale, cheek-sunken face gracefully. His eyes are wide and blue and surprisingly dry.

Surprisingly so, because this is contrary to the pasty-white streaks left in the wake of Jack's latest crying fit. His breath is still heavy and she's afraid that it's a panic-attack. He's had many.

He tugs at his clothing uncomfortably as if he's attempting to come right out of his skin. As if he's attempting to turn himself inside out and pull away from himself. From his past. Future. This is exactly what Evelyn doesn't want.

"Jack? Say something. Tell me you're ok,"

She's sitting up now, her arms folded over her lap.

Jack opens his mouth as if to say something else and yet nothing comes out. She pulls the covers down and pats the sheets next to her. Jack obliges and Evelyn finds herself combing through Jack's hair, telling him of things that she can't even determine he wants to hear about.

Things about life and family and how she always wanted kids, even when she had been younger.

And he had fallen asleep, leaning against her, leaving a warmness that would follow her through-out the rest of her life and haunt him (always leaving him searching for something that could replicate that same, warm feeling) for the rest of his life.

Needless to say, he won't find it.


My shortest oneshot ever...