[ WP ] Three friends . Four AM . No dialogue

Her chest softly rises and falls with every breath. The softness of her face, the subtle placement of her hand above her chest, the wisp of dark curl sweeping across her forehead -- if sleeping was consider a graceful act, Laura Medina would be its standard. Were her eyelashes always so long? For a long while I stare at the strap of her tanktop, rubbing softly against her collarbone. 
 
 He looks bumbling and foolish in juxtaposition; mouth agape with the occasional snore escaping, hair tousled in that boyish manner, one arm thrown carelessly above his head, the other around her waist. Around her waist. His fingertips against her skin. The empty feeling in my stomach expands. The clock strikes four. 
 
 Another snore breaks the silence. 
 
 When she opens her eyes, I ’ m tracing the pattern of freckles across her nose with intensity that would rival any astronomer exploring the milky way. I try to conceal my panic with nonchalance, but I ’ m sure my eyes give me away. I advert them -- likely, the most incriminating act of all. 
 
 Am I blushing? When was the last time I ’ ve done that? She doesn ’ t move. My eyes dart back. She ’ s staring. Expressionlessly. I give her a weak smile. An eternity of a minute passes before she returns it. 
 In that moment the emptiness within me is replaced with something denser because the look she is giving me is one I ’ ve seen a million times; the look she gave to the homeless man when he asked for coins and she had none to spare. When a small child asked her to play and she had to be on her way. The one expression in her entire catalog that had the power to break me -- the one she gives me all the time. 
 
 My nod of understanding leads to her turning to sleep. I fall back onto my pillow.
