E C L I P S E

an obscuring of the light from one celestial body by the passage of another between it and the observer or between it and its source of illumination.

T O  T H E
M O O N & B A C K

IT IS ALMOST two AM. We have lied here on the centre of Rory's bed for hours upon hours on end. Me with my head on her chest, her with her dainty fingers in my hair and her laboured breaths, mine shallow and calm.

Despite being the most comfortable I have practically ever been, I am yet to fall asleep, and for some unknown reason, she hasn't yet either. 

I just can't stop thinking about Alula and Solar and—just—everything. Everything feels overwhelming. It's too much. And maybe that's why I'm savouring being here right now, with her. Because I know how bad things are currently and how much worse they can and will continue to get.

I don't care if Rory's father who supposedly hates me is just upstairs sleeping. I don't care if everyone hates me and I'm failing college and I can't even remember the last time I had a decent meal or slept for longer than two hours. 

None of it matters.

Because I'm here with her and she's here with me and even though there are a million and one reasons as to why she and I should be facing the world right now and solving our own separate issues, we remain here, limbs entangled with limbs whilst we continue to breathe the same air, none of it matters.

"Baby." Rory whispers softly, running her fingers through my dark hair. I don't respond. Mainly because I'm so relaxed—so fucking tired. "Atlas." she says my name in a way that is so lovely it makes even me love my own name.

An impatient groan surfaces from the back of my throat. I lift my head from her chest, my eyes flicking up to meet hers. "What?" my tone is raspy and weak from sheer tiredness. But the mental sort, not physical.

"I can't sleep." she says, her tone sounds like broken glass—so close to breaking, and my eyebrows draw together. "I didn't mean to wake you, it's just—"

I move slightly. "It's okay." I reassure her, yawning. I'm struggling to hold our gaze but I think even if I close my eyes, I won't sleep. There's too much on my mind. "I wasn't sleeping." I say, my chin brushing up against the valley of her breasts.

"I'll be back. Try to get some sleep." she says, sitting up and I move off her.

I don't object as she stands up and leaves the room. Archie perks his ears up from where he lies at the foot of the bed but doesn't have time to follow her before she closes the door. I sigh, rolling onto my back as I stare up at the ceiling.

I'm so fucking confused. I can't shut my brain off—I just want. . .I just want it—everything to stop. Forever.

I don't want to be mentally ill. I don't want to be suicidal. I don't want to be me.  And I don't want to be feeling all of this right now—having these thoughts right now, whilst around her.

I wish that I could enjoy being around Rory to the full extent but these intrusive thoughts always barge in unannounced every time I start to feel the slightest bit okay. 

Another thing I struggle with. I always thought for most of my life thus far that intrusive thoughts were just normal thoughts.

I didn't know that the way I was thinking wasn't normal until my mother asked me what I was thinking about one day. It was during a family trip—I was thirteen and a half. We visited family in Malibu, America, then travelled around for a few days afterwards. One of the places was San Francisco. 

Mercy always wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge.

Two-hundred and forty-five feet from the water. Cold water.

What are you thinking about, sweetie? I can practically hear her voice as I think back to the memory. She looked so much younger back then. Everly was nine and clinging to my mother's hand tightly. Jumping off, I had answered. I remember her gasp. I remember seeing her face drop. I remember her asking why I was thinking that. Why why why. I don't know, was all I could say.

At that point, I didn't actually want to jump. I was a child, with my family, in America during school holidays. I was so fortunate and I knew that. I really did. But that's the fucked-up thing about intrusive thoughts: even in your happiest state, they can walk in and remind you of every knife, every high platform, every pill in the fucking cabinet. They can remind you of how you didn't get your father a gift for Father's Day last year or how you once shoved your sister in the playground and she scraped her knees.

Every mistake I make haunts me.

It's like I'm shattering with every wrong move. And so my own mind is punishing me for moving through life so. . .unlived. My bones strained, heart aching, and my soul tired and cold all because I cannot bear to live.

I'm tired. And I know that I say that a lot. But I truly am. With every fibre of my being—I am so fucking tired.  

Realizing the intrusive thoughts are coming in strong again, I sit up abruptly, and Archie stares at me, head tilted to the side.

Not here. Not now. Please, just let me sleep.

Kill yourself, they say. Hurt yourself, they say. Do something bad, they say.

I shake my head, groaning, before getting up and off the bed. I storm toward the door and pull the door open, not caring if Rory's father hears because until I exit the front door, I hear nothing and every movement and all of my surroundings become nothing.

I reach my car and unlock it, pulling the passenger door open, leaning across the seat as I open the centre console and dig around blindly, until I feel the flimsy plastic beneath my fingertips and pull it out. Two white pills in a transparent bag.

I take both.

And then I exhale, hands gripping the roof of my car as I lean forward, closing my eyes momentarily. And then it stops. Everything stops. And I realize that it is not only because I fed that obsessive need to be high all the time, but because I just self-harmed in one of the most amazing ways possible because no one can tell.

No cuts, not blood. Nothing.

I feel my pulse quicken; I hear the sound of my heart rate speeding up. I feel relief. Nothing hurts anymore. I'm not sick anymore.

I push off my car, closing the door before locking it. I walk slowly back toward her house. I can feel the cold rain on my back, wetting the jumper—which thankfully is at least six sizes too big for Rory—that Rory gave me after our shower.

Trying to be quiet, I twist the doorknob attached to her house and enter, my bare feet practically numb, and I step onto the welcome placemat to get rid of any water from my skin.

Amidst attempting to silently manoeuvre through the living room, I hear something—someone, and I pause my movements instantly. I hear the sound of metal clinking against something in the kitchen and I warily turn my head to the side.

I can see Rory's small frame sitting atop the counter near the sink, knees pulled to chest, spoon resting on the space near the ice cream tub which lies at her feet, empty. 

Without a second thought, I walk toward her, but she doesn't notice me. Mainly because her forehead is pressed to her knees, her arms wrapped around them, shielding her face from me. It isn't until she inhales a sharp, shaky breath, that I notice she's crying—heaving more so, because there is no noise. Her entire body is shaking.

I come to a halt.

What do I do? If I attempt to console her, will she get mad at me? Do I speak first or touch her? What if I startle her?

I sigh and internally fucking kick myself because she hears me and I don't get to touch her nor speak before she looks up and finds me there in front of her, watching her intently. Firstly, she looks confused, then surprised, then embarrassed.

I watch each of her features change as she goes through the motions.

"Atlas," she blows out a deep breath and it almost sounds as though it hurt. "I told you to get some sleep."

Her eyes are watching me intently, then ever so slightly, they move to the ice-cream container, then back to me and her eyes water more than they already were. All in one day, almost, she has managed to see me cry and I her. How fucking romantic.

I shake my head. "Why are you crying?"

She looks away, shakes her head, then stares straight forward. "Nothing—just—I know we have this whole I'll listen thing going, but I don't want you to listen to this, okay? And I don't want to talk about it." her tone isn't quite as firm as her words are and I wonder if maybe she does want to talk about it but she just doesn't know how.

I want to know. I want to know why she's crying in the kitchen at two AM. I want to know the reason for every shed tear. I want her to stop crying.

It makes me feel sad. And I'm high right now, the last thing I want to feel is sad. And I know that's insensitive to say but bad trips fucking suck.

The small kitchen window casts a dim light on her, as the crescent moon casts a dull white light through the glass. I sigh, nodding. "Are you hungry?" my eyes dart to the empty ice-cream container before moving back to her.

She inhales a sharp intake of air, shaking her head quickly. "No, no." her voice gradually becomes more panicked with each letter. Fucking hell, Atlas, stop saying the wrong thing. "I'm not hungry, I don't—"

I touch her shoulder and she finally looks at me and she looks so fucking stressed. "It's okay." I say. "I was just asking."

Again, she shakes her head, looking distraught. "Atlas. . ." she trails off, blinking as new tears stream down her cheeks. No, please stop crying. Why does this hurt so bad? "I can't—I'm—fuck. I feel disgusting." she speaks about herself with pure hatred. 

It's the way she sits on the counter like she can't bear to be around herself, but has to. It's the way she wears loose clothing, so that she doesn't have to feel the material, reminding her that she does have skin. It's the way she looks so ill, that kills me. 

You are not disgusting, I want to say, but I decide against it. She's telling me what she thinks, my opinion is not going to make her suddenly change her mind. So, instead, I say, "Why?"

She looks up at me through long, dark eyelashes. "I don't want to be me. I hate this—me. I hate me."

"Rory," I move closer, my hand reaching for her chin, tilting her face upward. "Stop crying—I mean, keep crying—if it makes you feel better—I mean—fuck. I'm so shit at this."

I want to help her but I don't know how. I can't tell her it's okay because quite fucking clearly it isn't okay. I want to tell her how pretty she really is. How I could not find a single flaw other than the lack of confidence. But she doesn't see what I see.

She laughs. She fucking laughs. And it's the most addictive sound I have heard thus far. Maybe not quite as addictive as the sound of her voice, though.

Rory turns to me, legs dangling off the edge of the counter now. Instinctively, I step between them, and she grabs my hips, pulling me ever closer. Adjusting her posture, she grabs both sides of my face and pulls me so that my eyes are level with hers. She looks deeply into my cold eyes and for an eternity, I stay frozen in time, captured by orbs that hold so much depth, I can never look away.

Brown melts into black circling an eclipse and I come to the realization that brown eyes are just brown eyes until you like someone with brown eyes because fuck, they are more pretty than any shade of blue or green or hazel could ever be.

"You're doing great, Atlas." she says with a faint smile. "I don't even know what I would say to that. I don't expect you to know either. You aren't always obligated to say the perfect thing."

I feel like I am.

I nod. "I just. . ." I sigh, becoming irritated with myself. "I don't want you to hate yourself."

She smiles a sad smile. "Me either." and then she presses a kiss to my forehead and I feel whole again. "I don't want you to either."

And that's exactly why I know how it feels. Someone wanting you not to feel a certain way—especially in relation to your own appearance—isn't going to change anything.

I don't know how to respond, so I do one of the few things I do know how to do and I kiss her. I press my lips to hers and hers mesh against mine perfectly. My hands move to her knees, sliding up her thighs which are covered in a thick cotton material, when reaching the top of her legs, I keep them still.

One of her hands move to the back of my head, fingers tugging at my scalp as I put every last ounce of my existence into kissing her.

I don't know if it's the pills I took or just her but this feels so fucking good.

"You truly are one of a kind, Atlas Westbrook." she whispers against my lips, breaking the kiss.

I press my lips to the tip of her nose. "As are you, Aurora Kingsley."

As are you.

A U T H O R ' S  N O T E

hi everyone!

i'm gonna keep this short and just say i hope y'all liked this chapter. make sure to vote, comment and follow me as well as let me know any thoughts you have :)

see you soon.
i love you <3

p.s who's your comfort character (it can be from any story or movie or whatever) mine is lakyn lmao, even though he's my own character.