Emil knew how to pretend to be asleep.
This was a skill he'd developed over the years. When he needed a break from Lukas or Kristjan's constant attempts to "connect" with him, he faked slumber for long enough to be left alone.
He wasn't as good at convincing himself, though. This truth seemed apparent as he sat upright in bed, twisting strands of his hair and muttering words from another language, another country, a long time ago.
The bed felt too big, and he felt too small in the cold, dark room. He lived alone, had lived alone for several lifetimes, but he never got used to it. His hands moved to pull at and trace the collar of his cotton shirt before settling over his socked feet. Emil closed his eyes and tried to breathe, but for some reason his lungs didn't want to fill all the way up.
The window will fix it, Kristjan used to say. Emil flushed at the thought that he used to ask the Danish man for help when he wasn't breathing completely right. He'd since gotten more scientific explanations about a little issue called "asthma," but he'd never forgotten Kristjan's advice. Mostly because it usually worked.
And so, with a groan nobody but he could hear, Emil moved his comforter off his legs, stood up from his bed, and trudged toward the window. He found the lock and slid the glass up. Air rushed in, colder than that in the house, but better to breathe. He felt every hair on his body stand up, but it was worth it for his lungs to take in something closer to their full capacity.
"I think that's better," Emil said to nobody in particular.
He leaned on the windowsill and looked down from the second story. It had rained recently, and the outside was heavy with it still. The smell of overturned dirt below and condensation on his house hung high in the air. Iceland was cold, that was for damn certain, but at least it was pretty. As if that doesn't define me well enough.