Notes

It’s not as dark outside as it should be for the hour. His room is cold, clothes still mildly damp, and arms folded. They’d already disconnected the heat and things, and he can’t stand how icy and solid his hair feels. The only thing he planned for today is already done; they wouldn’t be packing much else.

He doesn’t like what he’s wearing, but it’s not like he could do anything about that. His contacts were packed, too, leaving him with some wide-framed pieces of absolute shit he could swear weren’t even the right prescription. Everything is wrong, he says to himself, it shouldn’t feel this wrong.

He turns to face the wall opposite the doorway, folding his arms under his bomber jacket. Three windows line together, all underneath a single golden rod mounted higher than he could reach, with two offset-right from the other. They stand, thin, from a thick gray border against the floor to an inch below the ceiling with a flat sill between them. The windows were far enough from the wall for the sill to sit on, wide enough to hold three or four people comfortably, and maybe there would be a guitar sitting there if it hadn’t been taken with everything else. That probably could’ve calmed him. Music always had that effect.

The other window would’ve been against his bed, only waist-high, with a double-frame to slide it open. But now? Those windows are just the only source of light in the otherwise dark, empty room. The too empty room. Nothing stands but the half-disassembled bed-frame to the left, its mattress leaning against it, and its deep blue sheet folded over one side.

Outside the trees swayed. Or, at least, they looked that way. Maybe his head was too far gone, too delirious to notice what was actually moving and what was just spinning around him. Why did he agree to this? Why would he want to give this up? The solitude, the disconnect from everything else. He was fond of the neighborhood, the location and distance from town, and the weather never disappointed, even when it rained. He loved when it rained. The sky was always so pretty, and out here, he could actually see it. He couldn’t do that in the city, he couldn’t--

“You got everything?”

The usually bubbly voice was flat, and Evan was sure it was in an attempt to be consoling, but it gave the exact opposite. He had called from the hallway, but Evan couldn’t find a way to respond, out of the hopeful words he would’ve given yesterday, or even the ability to turn his head or hum in acknowledgement. Of course he didn’t have everything! There were still so many things he couldn’t take with him.

Physically, Evan wanted the walls. They were white and thick and covered in little pencil marks from all the times his insomnia led to a good idea. After these past few years, maybe there were hundreds, all in random locations in varying length, some with little notes off to one side. There was still residue from all the tape he’d used to put up posters, still nails and holes from all the paintings, still other hooks and indents and tiny scratches. It was a little depressing, actually, to see them so bare. He’d probably have to come back and paint them over later in the week, but not before recounting every idea, taking pictures, and scrubbing them clean.

It shouldn’t be this god damn difficult to come to terms with leaving, he thought. This was Evan’s first proper house, the first one he bought and owned. He could still picture all the places he and Jon had turned down, every little comment that Delirious was so sure would’ve made a difference, would’ve made it impossible to live there. He was right, of course; the offset windows, the short counters-- hell, even the cracked light-fixtures and peeling wooden panels, Jon knew Evan better than he did. They would’ve lived there a week before Evan decided they just had to move again.