Max awakens to the soft rumble of Warren's snores beneath her cheek. Her legs are tangled between his and the covers weave like vines between them. She doesn't know what time it is; she loses track of it so easily these days. Seconds drag through mud while days blur before her. The sun is a glare of light in her window and it stings against the rawness of her eyes. She pulls away from him, his shirt still damp from where she'd fallen asleep. He shifts slightly before opening his eyes, blinking at her in confusion and then breaking into a slight smile.
It stills her breath how aptly his attention is focused on her. It's like she is the only thing that matters in this moment and it makes her uneasy. At a time when she can't even pull her pants on without crying, the responsibility of another person is too much.
But the darkness at night is a much bigger monster and if she could be a little selfish and shed some of the fear, let his gentle shushes wash over her thoughts like static, she would let go, one thread at a time.
There is so much she can't tell him. He grasps her hands in his as if she were made of glass, as if were he to breathe too harshly, she would shatter. Some days she feels she will. Some days, she slips her shoes on and runs laps outside, pausing to snap a photo as the moment strikes her. The wind breathes ice into her veins, followed by a rush of adrenaline. It makes her feel dangerous.
He asks his questions carefully and she arranges her answers like puzzle pieces before her. She can't tell him why she flinches at the gaze of a man in glasses, but she alludes to the danger. He knows what happened in the restroom, but not why. These are the pieces she can't quite place on the table. The piece for time travel is still out of reach, and his jokes still pass through her like ghosts. She is not there yet.
But as he pulls his coat around himself to head to his own dorm, ruffling the sleep from his hair and blinking away his own weariness, she thinks she might be one day. She doesn't wince when he pulls her into a hug this time, placing a kiss absently on the top of her head. She doesn't tell him goodbye when he leaves but peers out the window to watch him walking away, turning to wave up at her.
She settles back into the warmth of her bed, barely hearing the chirp of a text message. She fumbles with the phone and Warren's words light up before her.
Still here, if you need me.
She is not there yet, but she thinks one day, she may be.