When you’re in an empty bed. It’s vast, almost never ending. You’re surrounded by last nights pyjamas, crumpled sheets, an extra blanket, cuddly toys you’re just a little bit too old for and probably a chocolate wrapper of some kind. The sheets, comforters, blankets, duvet and pillow look like mountains and valleys in the slight light of the early morning (late, late, LATE night). You feel, shifting around in it’s emptiness, that it may swallow you whole.
There are times when its openness can be pleasant, even relieving. Collapsing in to it after a long day at work, at 4pm in the afternoon (I’m sorry but I start at 7am). This is mine, I am here, this is me. Being able to lay and scroll through my phone is some kind of luxury that I can rarely claim. Sometimes nothing is better than having an entire duvet to roll up in. But there are times when I feel like looking for love in a strangers bed. Feel too alone in my head. And my bed. I know I’ll never find it. Only you can fill this empty space. But sometimes I feel like giving it a go.
That’s when the silence is overwhelming. my laptop is propped against a pillow and it takes up the space that someone might. A space which could quite easily be empty if I could stand that. After enough nights enjoying the freedom to move around as openly as possible, sometimes it is nice to be constricted to your corner again, if only by a cold piece of technology. But at least it’s rose gold coloured. I scroll through instagram and snapchat stories and come across your name. You are what feels like a thousand miles away. I can sense the dark surrounding that lies beyond the glow of my two screens, the empty room which will not get any less empty whether I’m on the bed or stepping on the floor.
Loneliness terrifies me. But so does being hurt by you again. So I try and persuade myself that an empty bed is nothing to be afraid of. It’s just the kind of thing which can feel sad after a while, something that can remind you that you never got that patient the extra pillow she asked for or that you never put your washing away or that you never picked up any more foundation and concealer or that half your heart feels like it’s missing. It’s the kind of thing which makes you turn on music, or sounds of rain or Netflix once again because the silence is starting to hurt your ears. It’s the kind of thing which reminds you that this silence, this quiet caused and absorbed entirely by yourself, is what you’re really afraid of.