It’s 5 o’clock in the morning

-conversation got boring

 

You slide the screen of your phone – inbox empty, sent items quite fed up. Flop down on his bed once again. He’s not home. He’s not replying, not calling. But you are. You’ve been. Too much.

 

It isn’t the first time. He’s had a habit of sneaking out in the middle of such ungodly hours thinking you’d be too beat to notice. He’s mistaken though. Always.

 

This time it’s been over ten, twelve minutes after he’d usually come home. If your phone could yawn like you do, it wouldn’t just be yawning. It’d throw his puffy pillow at you and tell you to ‘Just go the hell back to sleep’.

 

But you miss him. And you wrap your arms around yourself pretending it was him. Take a whiff of his sheets and grip his shirt, the one that you’re wearing.

 

Me: You better be in your car by now

Me: Get your off those nugu s and come home already

Me: Your favorite shirt is in the fireplace as my warmth. I’ll be here if you miss me.

 

None of your threats get through to him though. The speakers probably win over the ringtone and the bass probably masks the vibration in his pants pocket, you figured. So in other words, there was no sure contact with him whatsoever.

 

I won’t go crazy, you told yourself. But you’d be lying though, if you said you weren’t upset.

 

But he’ll be home. Maybe not on time but he’ll come in through that door. Any minute now.

 

Any minute now.

 

Just maybe not now.

 

You plug your iphone on the wall and wait for him. Back pushed against the headboards and pointed at the door. When the sound of his car would hum from the window you’d be ready to fall back and pretend to be asleep.

 

So he’d come home with a brown paper bag of burgers and coke. He’d pretend he wasn’t home late and that he didn’t know you were awake. His arms would be around your waist, lips softly on your cheeks before anything else. The television would be droning on a miniscule voice, flipped on Disney for all you’d care. Because you’d both be kissing on the bed till you’re out of breath and he’s knocked out senseless from alcohol dragging down his eyelids and in minutes, he’d be asleep. You’d be a bit disappointed but he’d make up for it the next day. You’d take a bite a bite of the burger he’d bought and stare at the dim air.

 

Ten minutes had never felt more like an hour in your life.

 

You slid off his bed and walked up to the door yourself. What if he was right downstairs? Stupid, yes. But something to walk about.

 

You don’t even open the door because it’s not too early or too late to be thinking straight. Obviously, he’s not even opened his car door and you’re already expecting him to be right down stairs. So you just stand. There where the streetlight is pouring in through the blinds in broken lines against the carpet and your skin.

 

You turn to the glowing orange. Reach your hand out toward it. It looks foreign on your skin. You’re soaked in a trance till…

 

“Hey-”

 

“Ow, .” A gasp is chocked out when the hazel wood of the bedroom door had collided with your arm.

 

You draw your hand back and hiss at the door. He’s there, throwing you a sheepish smile, an aroma much probably of McDonald’s reigning in from behind the door. “I’m home." 

 

Two things you love the most, him and a bag of McDonalds. Who cares if it's 5 o'clock in the morning? 

 

-FIN-

 

 

A/N: If you’ve heard of the song, why yes, it is a prompt that I’ve used. This is a slightly tweaked, toned down version maybe? But hell, Lily Allen’s lips are gorgeous motherers. But I guess I was just hungry. I have gone to munch on an apple. You've read well and enjoyed, I hope.

 

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