That Saturday Morn

The blanket holds me in a tight bear-hug. The pillow encases my head like an oyster a pearl. The cold winter breeze comes knocking at my window, eager to escape the warm sun-rays. The door creaks softly, swaying on the hinges as if drunk on the moonshine of the night.

“It’s morning,” the alarm clock on my bedstand chimes in.

“I knowwww.” I yawn out loud, fidgeting. I don’t want to wake up and get out of this safe haven.

I expect the alarm clock to start giving me its daily set of doomsday threats. Threats that would give Hermione’s homework planner a complex.

Instead, my phone grabs my attention. I have a “good morning, sweetpea” text.

That’s new.

That hasn’t happened before.

Or has it? I’ve been sad enough these past few months to forget the happier texts of the past.

I hold my phone gingerly. This metal box containing a fragile greeting has made me scared and nervous. What if I do something to damage it? What if it’s a text meant for someone else? What if I can’t frame an equally eager response?

I take a deep breath,visualising myself as Sisyphus, rolling that dark ball of negativity out of my brain through my eardrums.

And then a realisation hits me: I’ve been Atlas far too long. Holding up my fears and coping mechanisms as a shield. A shield from the flattening, deafening love that was meant to be.

I exhale deeply and unlock my phone. Maybe this… whatever this is… is a Pandora’s box I should be afraid of. After all, it only took one harmless-looking iceberg to sink the Titanic.

But what if I’m wrong? What if this… whatever this is… is it? The “it” that the Oracle predicted?

I smile again, my heart feeling warm and cosy in its leathery sweetpea-shell. I know what I should do.

“Hey there, gorgeous”.


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