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One Of These Mornings

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Words linger on his tongue, but they never make it out into the open. He's spoken enough words for tonight. Nothing more to be said.

When he wakes up, there's empty space next to him, and he flattens a hand out across the sheets. Residual body heat, faintly there, but scorching all the same, and he feels oddly numb inside.

Passes a woman he vaguely remembers from somewhere, and a funny story springs into his head. Turns to tell it with the beginning of a smile on his lips, and faces thin air. Snaps his mouth shut as his smile fades and there's something hurting in his chest.

Couch still with depressions from two people on it. Sits down in the corner and tries not to notice that he's alone. Closes his eyes and pretends, but it only lasts for so long.

Finds himself wondering why half his food turns bad before he can eat it, before he realizes he's still shopping for two. Tosses out everything he never wanted but still found himself buying out of consideration for the other man. Tells himself it doesn't matter anyway.

When a bad day rolls around, he finds himself missing someone to take his anger out on. Gets vaguely snippy with the man behind the counter at a nearby coffee shop instead. It's not the same, because the man doesn't get snippy back, just gives him a dull look that says he really doesn't care.

Spends a lot of time staring. Staring at nothing and missing the sounds of two people talking, one wolf barking, the TV set's static noise late at night, or the hiss of dinner warming in the frying pan, or slow, steady breathing that comes when falling into deep, sated sleep. Missing the sound of home. The silence is murder.

Pulls the sheets around his shoulders and watches the sunrise above the horizon, golden glow and serene beauty, and there's only one shadow falling across his wooden floor.

Two whole months and a heartbreak later before he realizes there was a lot more to be said, that just--wasn't.